


Golden Threads

by nyatsushi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU af, Alpha Lotor (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Galra Culture, Galra drink the ‘respect Omega juice’, Galra society is kind of effective if you get rid of Zarkon, Healthy ABO, M/M, Omega Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, characters that are dead are actually alive, gentle Lotor, probably my first & last time I'll ever write ABO so saddle up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyatsushi/pseuds/nyatsushi
Summary: Keith is already worried about a war. The last thing he wants to worry about is going through second puberty, having to figure out where he belongs in the context of these invisible spaces, or why events of immense improbability are thrown at him by the universe. But in the end? He wouldn’t have it any other way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the explanation chapter...*jazz hands*

The first thing that feels off is his sight. It’s been lingering for weeks now, but Keith still prays it’ll disappear on its own. It hasn’t affected his duties to the coalition too much, so he’s let it be until now. There are more important things to worry about anyway. He flicks his gaze down to watch his feet, seeing with a wavering clarity, as if looking through glass that’s warped on the edges. There’s a pulsing behind his eyes, a blooming warmth that thrums to an invisible beat. He wonders a moment if he’s truly becoming ill or if he’s hit his head too hard in training, but no pain plagues him. He feels _fine_ , just...different: as if perhaps he is a passenger in his own body. He stumbles into the firm back of Kolivan who had been walking ahead of him moments before.

The impact breaks Keith from his spell of thoughts and he quickly glances up to his mentor curiously. Kolivan is eyeing him, frowning slightly, but that could be from anything. It was hard to read him sometimes, his passivity when it came to emotion blanketed him at all times and Keith could never find a way through those walls. “Is there something on your mind, kit?” the Galra lowers his hood as he speaks. _You’ve been acting odd lately_ , Keith knows that’s what he means, but Kolivan isn’t good with words.

Keith shies away from the piercing yellow gaze and toes the ground. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he mumbles. It’s nothing he couldn’t handle, albeit alien and a little disorienting. He would overcome it.

Kolivan grunts, unsatisfied with the answer extended to him. He crosses his arms and turns fully to inspect Keith. “You’re distracted. There’s a reason for that,” he hums.

“There is,” Keith answers petulantly.

Kolivan growls. It’s harsh and short, and emanates from deep within his chest. Keith has heard Galra growls before, has heard Kolivan’s growl directed specifically at him when he’s frustrated with Keith’s lack of progress or blatant disregard to his orders. This growl is much like those growls before and something that’s never bothered him. Not until now, at least. The harsh chords resonate with something inside of him and Keith bodily flinches away from his leader as if cowed by a predator.

His hands tremble as he brings his gaze to meet Kolivan’s, whose jaw seems slack now compared to the tension he usually displays, quiet stoicism. His mentor slowly moves his hand to rest on Keith’s shoulder, a surprisingly grounding gesture. “Kit,” he begins, pausing to exhale deeply and gather his words, “how old are you?”

Keith looks up bewildered. It catches him off guard. “I think,” he pauses. He knows that earth years don’t quite match up with Galactic standard years but it’s close enough to the truth. “I think around twenty decaphoebs?”

Kolivan pauses for a minute, a long silence stretching, before he sighs as if in finality, “No training today. We’re going to see Medhi.” He quickly whirls Keith around on his heels and herds him to the Blades’ medbay on the castleship before any protests arise.

Protests arise anyway. “W-what? But I feel fine!” he stutters sheepishly as the larger man promptly bullies him around another corner. Keith picks up his pace in fear of being literally dragged into the medbay. Kolivan was so suddenly tense, hissing under his breath; it’s odd to him.

The doors of the tiny medical center swish open and Medhi, their resident doctor, looks up lazily from the tablet she’s scrolling through. She pushes the feet resting atop her desk off to propel her chair closer to them and swivel forward fluidly, stopping smoothly a foot apart from Kolivan with chin resting atop hands, legs crossed. There’s an awkward silence before she grows annoyed and sighs as if unspoken plans have been thwarted. “Spit it out Kolivan, I was enjoying my research,” the words drag out slowly and roughly, voice unused for most of the day. The clinic had been quiet as of late, it was almost a relief.

Kolivan lets go of his grip on Keith’s forearm and gently nudges him forward to meet the doctor’s steady gaze. She gives Keith a scrutinizing look, golden pupils narrowing. “You seem fine on the outside so you’re gonna have to _tell_ me if there’s something that’s broken on the inside, kit,” she snaps with no real venom to back the words up.

“I, uh, well,” he begins but glances back at Kolivan for help because he really doesn’t understand what he should be telling the doctor. Clearly Kolivan felt something was wrong with him.

“He’s twenty decaphoebs,” he states gruffly as if it infers everything he means.

Medhi seems to comprehend him though. Her gaze softens slightly as she moves her inquisitive stare from Kolivan to Keith. “But he’s _human_ , Koli,” she hums softly and Keith almost chokes on air because he’s never heard _Koli_ before.

“And he is also Galra,” Kolivan grumbles and exasperatedly sighs, “just keep an eye on him.” He quickly storms off, leaving Keith alone in the medbay with a pretty gray doctor who looks at him like a specimen.

He swallows in a poor attempt to clear his throat. “I think that’s the most emotion I’ve seen Kolivan show,” he says dumbly, voice cracking to punctuate the sentence.

Medhi bursts out laughing, clutching the tablet in her lap before sighing to calm herself. “You may be right little one,” she chuckles softly before standing from her chair. “He’s never comfortable with these things.” She doesn’t specify exactly what.

She’s easily two feet taller than Keith and he has to crane his neck to look her in the eye. She moves to the back room, gesturing for him to follow, and he swiftly meets her pace. In the back room there’s a cold table she taps with a manicured claw and Keith jumps up on it nimbly. This way he wouldn’t have to bend as far back to match her gaze.

“Tell me about human anatomy,” she hums, holding the tablet as if to fill out a medical record for him.

Keith just blinks, “uuuhhh, could you… be more specific?” He asks quietly, voice slipping away from him.

She gives him a flat look before returning her attentions to the tablet. “I’m aware of the differences between the sexes, I’m more curious about presenting and how it affects you. Are there even secondary sexes?” She glances up at Keith who, he’s sure, is wearing a dazed expression.

“Right, so that’s a no,” her claws tap on the tablet’s screen softly before she looks up again. “When did you go through puberty?”

Keith can feel his cheeks heat as he thinks. It was just before the academy that it really started affecting him, but it was also a pretty weak transition into manhood compared to the rest of his classmates. He’s never been tall, but he grew at such a slow pace it almost felt like he hadn’t grown at all. He never had to worry about facial hair either, which he never thought too hard about and only recently connected to his Galra heritage. “Uh, maybe when I was fifteen? It’s been a while,” he settles on.

Medhi hums, “have you experienced any weird symptoms lately?”

So that’s what all of this was about. Keith’s insides squirm and he fidgets with his fingers. “Well, I guess my vision has been weird…,” he trails off.

Medhi perks up at this, “Elaborate, please.”

Keith looks nervously to the side. “It’s almost like I’m seeing under water and then everything is suddenly clear. But it’s back and forth, like my body can’t pick between the two,” he speaks to the corner of the room before adding, “...makes my eyes feel warm.”

She nods after a moment, “what about sensitivity to noise?”

Keith shakes his head, “nothing more than usual.” He was prone to over-sensitization that only grew worse after his time in the desert. It was a driving force that made him shy away from contact, away from gatherings, away from _fun_. Because fun was often loud and uncomfortable.

She sets the tablet on a desk behind her and rests against it, arms folded. “Smell?”

Keith’s nose scrunches up, “I mean I’ve always…” he stops as his eyes finally slide up to meet hers. He spots her brow twitch before she turns and shuffles to grab something from the cabinet. Soft scraping sounds bounce off the walls of the small room as glasses clank on the metal desk top. She turns back around a moment later with a tab in each hand. She holds one forward and impatiently grunts, “tell me what you smell.”

Keith nervously edges forward and drags in a deep breath. His nose immediately scrunches at the heavy floral scent, Medhi watching him with interest. “It smells like some kind of flower...,” he mumbles, _but not a very nice one_. He keeps that part to himself, though.

Medhi nods before moving the tab into a container back on the table. She holds out the other tab as she puts the former away and Keith leans forward, taking as deep an inhale as previously...and chokes. Medhi whips her head around to watch him as Keith smacks a hand over his mouth a nose. There’s a glint in the doctor’s eyes. “Well?”

Keith removes his hands only enough to speak. “I can’t explain it, but it’s _a lot_ ,” he swallows, “it’s, I can’t, I can’t breathe,” he wheezes.

She sighs and moves the tab away slightly. “I need you to give me deep breaths, Keith. Inhale,” she motions up with her free hand and Keith does as she asks. The air is antiseptic now, away from the strange essence on the medical tab. “Exhale,” her hand slices fluidly through the air as does Keith’s breath releasing from his lungs.

He’s okay now. He doesn’t feel so overwhelmed. “Now,” Medhi starts cautiously, “I need you to smell this again, but don’t breathe in so deeply this time.”

She holds the tab put forward and Keith leans in slightly, his lips part and he gently assesses the scent that’s being raised to him. It doesn’t smell like anything particular, but it _feels_ a certain way. It makes his shoulders lose some of their tenseness and sag back slightly. She smiles softly at him, “better?” Her usually waspy tone forgotten as she taps Keith’s chin to keep his focus on her. He nods hesitantly. “Can you describe it to me?”

It’s hard to find words that can describe it, he hums, thoughts falling short of his tongue. He sighs, letting his hair fall and cover his face slightly. “It’s, refreshing,” he starts slowly, rolling the words in his mouth, “but it’s different than fresh air. It’s a clean feeling, like I can think more clearly now.”

She moves the tab to the table where she placed the other and smirks a little. “How does it make you feel?”

Keith cocks his head slightly at the question.  “I mean, it’s there, and I like it more than the rest of this place,” he remarks. He figures most people would prefer it to the smell of antiseptic, so the question seems odd to him, out of place.

She chuckles, “sterile environments unsettle most, I don’t blame you,” she pauses before gaining a more neutral facade. “Humans and Galra alike can smell the first tab. It’s from a pungent flora that every species with the proper equipment can smell,” she hums and fiddles with a stray thread on her coat, “but the second one is something only Galra can smell.”

Her words sink in slowly but deeply. If Keith could smell it, then that means he might have other Galra issues he’d have to worry about. “Okay, so what does that mean?” he asks slowly, surely.

The slightest of smirks tugs on her features again, “the second tab is a pheromone that about half the Galra population produces. It’s harmless, bland, but functional.”

Keith nods slowly, absorbing the information. “So do I smell like that too?”

Her expressions grows serious but remains calm. “I’m not sure, Human physiology is different than Galra, but…,” she huffs, “at a young age, Galra children start to present a secondary sex. It’s something that’s ingrained in our society. It does not rule over it, but there are social _cues_ that you learn during that time. Things that are subtle or nonexistent to every other species but we can pick up on amongst other Galra. It's kind of like a silent language only Galra speak, but it's different than verbal of physical communication. There's a lot of physical communication as well, but you'll learn that in time.”

Keith’s nose scrunches up in thought, “so I can sense it and…,” he looks up to Medhi for clarification.

She looks at him almost pleading in her eyes. It’s not her job to hold his hand through all of this. Then again, Keith had no one else to explain it to him. She relents a few ticks later, “I believe because you’re human, it’s delayed your presentation. It sounds like you’re only starting, so we have to keep a watchful eye on you,” she notes, although mostly to herself.

Keith puts his head in his hands and ruffles his hair in agitation, groaning frustratedly. “Presenting as _what_ ?! I don’t, I can’t, _ugh,_ ” he rests his head fully in his hands in defeat.

Medhi’s internal cogs churn, trying to grasp a way to explain it. “Well,” She begins reluctantly, “we aren’t sure yet. It’s hard to tell in the beginning. But it can take a turn one of three ways.” Keith raises his head from his hands to listen intently. “There are Beta, which are most of the population, like myself. We are the least affected by internal factors, though we tend to take orders well I guess,” her clawed fingers gently tap the metal desks top behind her. “Then there are Alpha, who, from the outside...they seem pretty intimidating. They have a commanding air about them. They’re good at _giving_ orders. But they’re the most plagued by instinct.”

Keith sits up a little straighter. He’s thankful to Medhi taking the time to explain all of this to him, all of this new bullshit he didn’t think he’d have to worry about. He’s silently grateful they found the Blades, or he would have gone through this confused and without help. “What do you mean _plagued_?” He ventures to ask.

“Instinct, hormones, whatever. It makes them pretty terrifying on the battlefield. They tend to be relentless powerhouses. Downside is they’re at the beck and call of our third presentation.” She chuckles darkly at her own thoughts, “for all the fight they have in them, they have to have their nurturing instinct beaten out of them through militaristic training.”

“Is that…,” Keith pauses, “is that like Antok?”

Medhi looks him over, surprised. “You can tell?”

He feels his ears become hot suddenly, “he’s enormous and a hard hitter but I think he’s almost like a mother that has to herd all of his children together.” There’s a memory pressing to the front of his mind. The Blades had finally found a short respite before they were plunged into dangerous territory again. Kolivan couldn’t have cared less about everyone goofing off other than showing slight annoyance to the ruckus while he read over reports. Someone at some point began a game of Spar-hunt, of hiding and chasing and roughhousing shenanigans, and after getting too far out of control Antok quickly ended it. It was Antok, not Kolivan, who caught everyone, brought the rowdy back to sit in the common area and herded everyone left in to give them the _disappointment_ talk. As if chastising children. The memory brings a smile to Keith’s face.

“He can certainly be a sour den mother sometimes,” Medhi snickers under her breath. She shakes her head, getting back to the rest of the explanation. “Lastly, there are Omegas. They’re about a quarter of the population like Alphas, give or take.”

Keith tilts his head, “what’s their deal?”

Medhi grumbles under her breath so faintly Keith can barely hear, it’s a mangled sense of words that are half coherent. Something about being _scary._ Keith swallows nervously. “Omegas are,” her tone keeps a diplomatic lilt, “in my humble opinion, the only reason the entirety of the Galra race hasn’t burned itself to oblivion by now.”

Keith blinks at her, “o-oh?” That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“Omegas are really important to our culture because they have sway over both Beta and Alpha alike. Their pheromones _calm_. Their presence soothes the angriest and most vicious of Alpha. They can part a room of rowdy Galra just by walking down the middle.” She rests a hand under her chin and her gaze moves to stare off into space a moment, “honestly I find it terrifying how much of the leash they really hold.”

A shiver runs down his spine at the thought of unknown bodily changes. But he’s _human_ , there’s no way to know for sure if he’d present at all. His eyes shut tightly. He wants to will it all away and go back to when his vision wasn’t like swimming underwater. “I can hear your thoughts, y’know,” Medhi hums, “every half Galra on record has presented regardless of what species their other half is. It’s biologically dominant.”

Keith mulls over the information. “How will I know?” he asks reluctantly.

“I hope to monitor you,” her gaze snaps back to meet his, “but there’s several ways we can find out. The easiest is to put you in a room with all three and see who loses it first but sadly we’re fresh out of Omega.”

Keith can’t discern if she’s joking and gives her an incredulous look. “Omega aren’t usually on warships. Nothing would be conquered if they were. It’s not to say that they’re weak or docile, far from it. It’s their sway over Alpha in particular that prevents the pure carnage that Zarkon wishes to see.”

Medhi grabs the tablet from desk and opens a file, fingers tapping. “But we don’t have that, so either you’ll go about your business and won’t really suffer any other strange effects, or you’ll present as a non-Beta. That’s the part that gets tricky,” she sighs, “if you’re an Alpha, the smallest things will set you off until you can get a handle on your frustration. You’re going through something that Galra _children_ go through, what they have years to learn how to manage before adulthood. But you’re already an adult, so it complicates things. If you fully rage about something we might have to sedate you. Antok is a good person to go to if you have questions about that.”

Keith sits on his hands to warm them up against the cold room temperature and nods. Antok is already someone he looks to for advice. He’s quiet, gruff, but his teachings are sound and from a place of concern. Going to him for help is something he can do, and that thought eases his anxiety a bit. “What if I’m not an Alpha?” he ventures.

Medhi becomes very serious and rests her hands on either shoulder, forcing Keith to meet her eyes. “If you start to feel weak, or warm, or you get oversensitive from things you’re used to, you need to see me _immediately_ ,” she hisses. She doesn’t explain further, only a concerned threat lingering in the air. Keith’s stomach churns with dread. He really hopes he’s a Beta. This is all a lot for him to take in as it is, and severe physical changes both terrify him and irritate him. He dislikes not being able to help, to fight, to do his part in the war. To be a loose cannon or bedridden sounds a horrid fate.

“I—,” _I’m scared._ “Thank you, Medhi,” he decides on instead.

She smiles softly at him. “See me if you need anything, alright?”

Keith slides off the metal table mumbling, “I will.”

“Oh, and Keith?” He pauses at the door and turns his head to look at her, waiting. “Please rest today. Exerting yourself in training is asking for disaster,” her voice has a fondness that makes Keith’s ears burn. He brusquely nods his head and stiffly walks out in favor of speaking.

Keith didn’t want to be left to his thoughts, he wanted to train, to empty his mind and bring him into each moment with muscles sore at the end of the day. He didn’t want _this_ , whatever it was. It was forced on him and it frustrated him.

He stomps his way down the hall toward his room, tears pricking his eyes. His head is swimming with fog and he’s forgotten how to breathe. He pauses at his door, lingering just outside in thought. He could go to Antok right now, ask him a million questions. He’s fairly certain he’d implode at the weight of information thrown at him though, head already pounding.

And so decidedly, Keith marches into his room and lets the tears shed as his head hits the pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eyes emoji*  
> Also, google docs on my phone is a savior and a half.

Keith wakes to the sound of the small alarm going off on the back panel near his bed. He’s clammy and hugging one of the pillows on his side instead of sleeping on his back per usual. It’s disorienting. There’s a dull ache in his head and he can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage begging to get out. He slowly rolls out of bed to shut the alarm off, prompting the lights to turn on and winces as a sharp pain cuts through his head the second light swarms his vision. He rubs the palms of his hand into his eyes to alleviate some of the sting before slowly removing them, hissing at the intensity of the fluorescence attacking his sight.

He can’t remember when he fell asleep, but he knows he’s slept over ten hours at the very least. His vision doesn’t swim as badly as the day before once his eyes adjust to the light. It would be a relief were it not for the damp ring around the collar and back of his shirt and the throbbing in his skull that’s replaced it. He shakily rises from the floor and grabs onto the wall to steady himself. _Antok_ , he thinks. Antok could help him. Antok always had an answer.

He can’t bring himself to shower. Exhaustion sinks into his skin, holds him close, deprives him of sound thought. All he can bring himself to do is change his nightshirt into one of the extra pieces of clothing they had stashed in the castle, an oversized hoodless black sweatshirt that almost drowns him. It’s clearly a garment meant for someone of Shiro’s size but it’s comfortable and he’s too tired to care. Pulling on his usual fitted black pants is a hassle, but it’s preferable to walking around a freezing ship in boxers.

His feet patter softly against the ground as he exits his room and stumbles toward the Blade’s common area to the side of the castleship. It’s separate from the other spaces, secluded enough to allow them their business without interference. It makes Keith’s journey there less miserable as the halls remain empty in the cold morning. He bunches up the ends of the sleeves that are too long into his hands to keep them warm. The back of his neck is stuck with hairs from sweating during the night, the cool air sending chills down his spine. In the recesses of his muddled mind he knows he looks a wild mess, but the most important thing right now is _Antok_. Antok would help make this horrible feeling go away. He’s not sure why he knows so assuredly but there’s no reason he’s wrong either. He only hopes Antok is where he usually is mornings to _end this_.

Antok is exactly where Keith predicted. As he stumbles into the common room, bare feet wobbling against the frigid metal floor, Antok looks up from the info files he’s scrolling through. “Kit?” he calls, surprised at Keith’s dress and apparent exhaustion. He sets down his tablet and firmly walks over to steady the young Blade, fear of him falling over from the sheer amount of effort he’s using to walk. “Kit, tell me what’s wrong,” his voice is soft but determined.

Antok was a good idea, Keith thinks, if he’d gone to Kolivan he would’ve gotten a stupid remark like _you look awful_. Kolivan’s way of showing concern wouldn’t work this time. Not this time, maybe not next time either. He takes a shuddering deep breath before shakily exhaling and grabbing onto Antok’s arms that are extended out to him. “I feel sick,” is all he can wheeze out before his forehead falls and hits Antok’s chest for support. He smells like comfort and hides Keith from the blaring light.

Keith can feel a large hand gently rest against the back of his neck and he breathes deeply again, just as shakily as the first time. His shoulders start to sag and he hates _everything_ about this. He wants to turn into water and evaporate. “You’re warm,” Antok remarks gruffly but the concern that laces his tone gives away the surly front.

“Really?” Keith groans, his vocal chords feel like their scraping the rest of his body, “because I feel cold, and everything is loud…and bright.”

Antok gently strokes the wet hair stuck to the back of his skull and nape, smoothing it down in a poor attempt to tame the mess. It’s a mindless motion but comforting nonetheless. “Kolivan told me you’re presenting,” he informs the small Blade gently. Keith groans in frustration at the mention of it. If this is what it means he _doesn’t want it._ The Galra can take it back.

This earns a small chuckle from Antok. “We’ve all gone through this, kit. It’s inconvenient but it’s natural, it’s something that just happens and we take it as it is,” his tone is soft and Keith is silently grateful. Loud noises right now would end him for good, he’s certain.

“I just,” Keith swallows to sound less scratchy but his mouth and throat are still too dry, “I— everything _aches_. My head is pounding and I won’t stop sweating but I’m still cold. I don’t think I’ll make it…” he finishes weakly.

Antok’s ministrations halt in Keith’s hair for a moment before picking up again. “You hurt?” he inquires. Keith nods weakly against the firm chest keeping him steady. “Where do you ache, little one?”

Keith feels like he’s adrift at sea. It’s no longer his vision but his entire existence permeated by invisible beating waves against his skin, his mind, his lungs. “My muscles are _sore_ , everything’s _sore_ ,” he whispers frustratedly.

There’s a moment of silence, the only sounds made by whirring vents in the back of the room. “Worse than training?” Antok presses. Another weak nod from Keith. There’s shifting and suddenly Keith is standing on his own until he isn’t. A large arm slides behind his knees, another behind his back, and his world turns sideways as Antok lifts him like he weighs nothing.

He gently places Keith down on the couch by his workspace, shuffling to grab some pillows and the cloak he wears when it’s cold. He drapes the cloak on top of the pillows and Keith eyes him, confused by the actions. Antok gently guides him to lay down on his side, head resting atop the pillows and habillement. Keith feels a hand gently stroke his hair and move it out of his face, it’s soothing and his eyes slide shut to focus on the feeling. Antok adjusts the end of the cloak to be closer to Keith’s face, “take deep breaths, kit. It will help.”

Keith does as he’s told, takes a deep breath in and exhales slowly. His lungs are abruptly filled with a strong scent that feels like a comforting embrace, like protection. It smells like Antok but so much more. His muscles relax slowly the longer he breathes it in. He cracks his eyes open to gaze at the now kneeling blade in front of him, brows furrowed in question. Antok gives him a small smile, something knowing in his gaze, but he doesn’t reveal anything.

“Rest up kit, I will be right here,” he says warmly.

Keith watches as the large Galra stands, grabbing the tablet and then moving to the end of the couch by his feet. He settles down and goes back to scrolling through the intel. Keith gently moves his feet to rest on one of Antok’s thighs. They’re tiny in comparison to his goliath stature and if he were feeling better he’d probably be amused by it. When Antok doesn’t seem bothered, Keith nuzzles into the pillows and comforting scent. He breathes in deeply, again, and again, until there’s a soft rhythm and his thoughts escape him as the darkness of sleep embraces him.

 

 

Keith jolts awake as someone bursts out cackling in the Blade common room. He sits up whipcord fast in reaction and immediately regrets it as the rest of him finally catches up. He groans and rubs his forehead with his palm. When he looks over, a grumpy Kolivan is standing next to a cackling Treg.

“Don’t,” he hisses at her, but she seems unbothered by his threats as she turns to Keith.

“Looks like our littlest Blade’s joining the Beta ship,” she remarks.

Keith doesn’t get it. “Wha—,” is all he can get out before Kolivan cuts him off.

“Don’t put false ideas in his head, we don’t know yet,” his voice lowered as he chastises her.

She beams at Kolivan and Keith gives her a withering look. Her pointy teeth are bright against her delighted expression and he has to glance at Kolivan before he starts to miss the usual dour countenance of his mentor. Treg is too shiny for him right now. “You’re not an Alpha,” she states.

Keith shakes his head to rid of his grogginess. “How do you know?” he asks wearily.

She rests her hands on her neck, folded together. “Antok helped you calm down, right?” she presses. Keith nods. “Then you can’t be an Alpha.”

He squints at her before his gaze flicks to Kolivan for clarity and receives a withering sigh from their leader. “I was meaning to tell you later,” he glares at Treg a moment before continuing, “...an Alpha’s scent cannot calm another Alpha. It serves to agitate unless they are of blood. You and Antok are not of blood.”

It takes him a moment for the words to sink in, but he finds he’s immediately relieved once they do. He’s that much closer to being a Beta. This was good, this meant there was hope of him returning to how he was before all of this. “Are you feeling better?” Treg asks, cocking her head to the side.

Keith hums. He feels _much_ better. The aching is gone and his head isn’t pounding. It’s bearable now. He nods in answer to the lean, catlike Galra. “Antok is on the main deck right now. He said if you’re up for it he’ll help you catch up with training, and to get him when you’re ready.”

He perks up at this. “Thanks,” he mumbles as he rises from the couch and fixes the sweatshirt hanging off his small frame. He’s determined now and moves to leave without a goodbye, he knows it’s implied anyways.

 

 

When Keith gets to the deck, washed up and clad in his Blade armor, there’s a muffled argument going on he can hear through the door. He quickly raises his hood to hide away. It always makes him feel less anxious in social situations and the slight weight atop his head is grounding. He picks up on several voices, swallows, and then enters the room quietly to stand next to Antok who’s situated in a stubborn stance. Chest puffed out, arms crossed, glaring at someone across the room. Keith follows his gaze curiously until his sights land on Lotor. He frowns slightly.

Shiro is close to being in Lotor’s face, glaring at him ferociously like he’s ready to sucker punch the prince. Lotor holds a tight grip on the sheathed sword by his side and seems rather displeased by the situation. “We don’t trust you yet, why do you think we’d let you go to that base alone to get intel?” Shiro hisses. Keith minutely cocks his head to the side to regard him, he hasn’t seen him so worked up in a long time.

“ _Because_ ,” Lotor states severely, “I know the ins and outs of that place, I know how to get around security, and by your standards I’m expendable. I only see gain on your end. If I die, you win. If I prevail, you win. This isn’t a difficult decision.”

Allura chimes in from beside the front console, “at least allow someone from the Blade of Marmora to accompany you.”

Lotor’s narrowed gaze flicks to the princess, “to babysit me? Make sure you have me on a leash and pull it when I do something you dislike?”

There’s a tension in the air that starts to make Keith shift uncomfortably, an intensity radiating from Lotor he hasn’t felt before. “A _leash_ is necessary for someone like _you_ ,” Shiro spits.

A deep growl emanates from Lotor in response, something Keith’s only heard from a distance in the heat of battle from his fellow Blades. It’s dangerous and makes Keith’s stomach roil. The prince exudes a sharp scent he’s able to pick up on that feels like fire in his lungs and he shies away from it behind Antok enough to gain distance but still watch. The longer the stand off goes on, the more distressed he quickly becomes.

Without warning the growl cuts off awkwardly and Lotor’s stony facade returns save for corrugated brow. He turns his head minimally and snaps his gaze to meet Keith’s eyes, regarding him carefully. Keith is pretty sure he looks like a deer in headlights right now, but is too shaken to do anything about it. Antok sidesteps a little more to cover him from Lotor’s scrutiny.

There’s a strange impasse between the two, but it’s much less aggressive than the standoff with Shiro moments ago. Keith swallows around a lump in his throat. Antok, Kolivan, even Medhi who had explained so much to him were all still cryptic about Galra body language and right now he wished they hadn’t been. There’s a soft grunt from Lotor before he speaks, “take care of your Omega.” Keith notices him glaring at Antok.

It takes Keith a second for the words to click in his mind. Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s suddenly flooded with dread and his stomach drops, the room beginning to spin. Antok freezes in front of him as Keith internally freaks out, sensing his uneasiness.

The non-Galra in the room look between the three confused. Keith shyly glances at their reactions only to find blank or perplexed faces until his eyes find his feet again and he hides further in his hood to avoid the stares. Lotor huffs at the scent of immense distress radiating from him before turning and carefully striding closer.

Antok steps fully in front of Keith now, hiding him from the other Alpha. He can see around him marginally, but enough to see Lotor bare his teeth and growl. This one is different; it’s commanding, it’s pleading, its meaning is disarrayed in his mind but he he knows he feels _something_ because of it. It stops when, slowly, Antok relents and shuffles to the side so Lotor can step up in front of Keith.

His hands tremble faintly as Lotor’s calmly reach to either side of his face and gently cup the sides of his jaw, thumbs resting just below his cheek bones. The action is strange, out of character from what he’s seen up until now, but oddly not unwelcome. Lotor slowly bends down to rest his forehead gently against Keith’s and closes his eyes.

Keith inhales sharply at the contact and his lungs, his head, his body, _everything_ , is flooded with a scent he’s never tasted before. His eyelids droop and his muscles relax but it’s different than Antok’s. Antok is firm and comforting like a parent. Lotor makes him feel soft and languid and _warm_. He can feel his cheeks heat slightly before he closes his eyes completely. He takes a few more deep breaths, the way Antok and Medhi make him, and he can feel himself calm down completely. As he sighs contentedly, Lotor’s gentle warmth is gone. The scent still lingers nearby but not as strongly and Keith opens his eyes to the sight of Lotor slightly turned toward Allura across the deck.

“We will continue this tomorrow,” Lotor enounces, turns toward the door, and smoothly leaves the room as the swishing of the door closing punctuates his exit.

Keith’s gaze awkwardly moves to gauge everyone’s reactions. They're all staring at him with shocked expressions. Ordinarily this would discomfort him but the lingering scent of Lotor clings to him. On his forehead, on his neck, calming him. He flushes at the attention but he doesn’t feel as anxious as he would normally. Lance is the first one to speak.

“What the quiznak was that about?” he demands bluntly.

“Uh-Uhm…,” Keith stutters, looking to Antok with pleading eyes. He only receives a chuckle in response.

“I’m confused,” Allura states, aiming an inquiring look toward him.

“I’m—,” Keith begins. “I’m leaving,” and he whips around to march out of the room, but not before he hears Antok order him to wait in the training room.

He lets out a sigh as he meanders the hall toward his destination. What the hell was all that about? Why did he feel so placid when a man who he’s supposed to be weary of gently held his face? Keith keeps his eyes on the ground in front of him, stewing in his thoughts. They bring him back to what Lotor had said. _Take care of your Omega._ Antok and Kolivan would have told him if he was, right? Treg had thought…maybe Treg was wrong. Keith frowns and silently curses Medhi for instilling this fear in him.

He reaches the training room and enters sullenly. He wants to keep things as they are, not to worry about second puberty because he’s half Galra. It all seems convoluted, overwhelming, and tiresome. He bites the inside of his mouth. The scent that lingers on him is still strong, so strong that he can’t even bring himself to be frustrated. Instead he sits, sliding down the cool back wall to rest his head against the icy surface. His breathing is slow and fluid and each breath invites more of the scent clinging to him into his lungs.

Antok arrives a few minutes later and stops to regard Keith whose slouched against the wall. “Are you up for training?” he asks simply. It’s a way out, Keith knows. They’ve danced like this before when his teacher’s motherly instincts kicked in from time to time.

“Why do I feel so...so…,” he can’t find the right word in his hazy warm brain.

“Pliant?” Antok finishes for him.

That fits. Or at least is fitting enough. He feels soft and warm and yes, _pliant_. “Like I’m melting into a puddle,” he murmurs.

Antok chuckles softly before, “I didn’t want to tell you until Kolivan and I were certain.”

Keith peeks up from his position. “That I’m an Omega?”

Antok hums in affirmation and Keith knows he can’t hide the disappointment from his face. There’s a stretch of silence for a bit while Antok figures out how to delicately phrase what he wants to say.

After a while, “did Medhi say something to you?”

Keith nods. “She’s very opinionated,” is all he says.

Antok sighs, “pay her no mind. She’s intelligent and a great doctor but she can be very subjective in her views.” Keith can see him shift to face him better and then kneel so they’re closer to eye level. “There’s nothing wrong with being an Omega. Each presentation has different health…outcomes—,” Keith narrows his eyes as his teacher circumvents the word _problems_ — “but they can be worked around and prepared for. Understand?”

Keith can’t bring himself to meet Antok’s eyes, instead opting for dissecting the metal patterns on the floor. He bows his head slightly. “That’s not an answer,” Antok speaks in his strict voice, but softened by concern.

“Yes…,” Keith mumbles embarrassed.

This seems to satisfy Antok enough. “Good,” he says while rising again, “feeling well enough to spar now?”

The scent has dissipated enough for Keith to not feel like he’s melting. He’s surprised he finds himself missing it, but shakes it off as he stands. “I should be,” he affirms. Antok only grunts in response before making his way to the center of the room.

Training was good for Keith, kept him in the present moment so he couldn’t dwell. _There’s time for that later,_ he thinks, and jogs up to meet Antok before falling into a ready stance.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that Lotor’s fighting style is my sexuality, but that’s nothing new.

Keith feels more like himself with each day that passes while he keeps in close proximity of Antok. By the end of the second week, his morning shakes are gone and he feels lighter than he did before. His sense of smell is sometimes still upsetting, though. Many scents overwhelm him and he can’t shut it off so he has to flee. Voltron’s bombardment of questions have been quelled down by Kolivan who, thankfully, didn’t delve too deeply into detail. He still receives inquisitive stares from them, especially now that each time he passes Lotor he flushes slightly and walks faster to escape.

Antok gives him small lessons on Galra culture after every training session, careful not to overwhelm him, for which Keith is immensely grateful. He doesn’t know everything, not by any means, but he knows the basic. He knows that turning his head away fully and exposing his neck is a form of submission and shouldn’t be done with indifference. He knows that he produces a scent from beneath his jaw, the junctures of his neck, and the soft parts of his body like under his arms… and the dip in his hips that leads to his groin. This part makes him beet red with embarrassment as Antok explained it and every time after that his mind wanders back to it.

He knows if there’s an aggressive standoff the first person to look away yields. He knows that certain growls mean certain things. They can be possessive, dominating and assertive, chastising, and at times to briefly show embarrassment. He doesn’t quite know the difference between how they sound, but his body reacts accordingly to each so he doesn’t have to put much thought into it. Keith knows that bowing one's head down is respectful to those who are stronger, and assessing when to relent is important.

There are many things he knows, yet he feels like he’s still fumbling around in the dark. When Keith asks him about the health concerns he should have, Antok decides to leave it to Medhi because she could explain it better to him. But Keith doesn’t want to go to Medhi, he wants Antok to tell him. He feels safe with him, and news that would cause him distress is no longer so upsetting when he’s the one that delivers it. But greatest of all, he knows that he’s become _faster_ and his reflexes have developed more in two weeks than they had in six months. This part he enjoys.

Keith stands in the center of the training room in a defensive stance, breathing heavily as Antok stands straighter. “You’re improving, kit,” he encourages, “good.” Keith beams at the praise.

“Again,” Antok commands and Keith immediately darts and rolls between the large Galra’s legs.

He’s teaching him to use an enemy’s large stature against them by being quicker, using misdirection, and fighting with finesse. The latter is the most difficult of his lesson, he finds.

Keith quickly twists around to his feet and with two hands jabs foreword with his sword. Antok grabs the top of his blade and drives it through the space between his arm and torso, throwing Keith off balance. He whips around and forcefully lashes the smaller blade in the stomach with his tail. There’s a feeling of weightlessness as he glides through the air until Keith lands several feet away. He shuffles onto his back to stare at the ceiling after he gains composure, his muscles trembling from overexertion. He can hear Antok slowly pad up to him before leaning to block the light.

“We can rest now,” he states simply and moves to grab the water he’d set out for the both of them.

Keith’s body groans in protest as he lifts himself up to a sitting position and finally stands to make his way over to Antok. He cradles the water pouch in his hand, sipping it slowly to avoid nausea. The silence is long but not uncomfortable, and it gives his senses a break from the loud clashing of luxite.

They rest for a while, twenty minutes at least, and Keith’s limbs no longer shake. The respite is kind to him. His stamina had increased along with his speed. It’s a perk he didn’t think he’d have through this mess but is pleased about it nonetheless. His attention redirects to the door of the training room as it opens, Lotor strides in and halts when he notices Antok and Keith.

“My apologies, I didn’t realize this space was being occupied,” he states curtly.

Lotor begins to turn back out of the room until Antok asks him, “you care to train?”

This earns an amused huff from the prince, but it’s short and there’s a tinge of mockery to it. “I came to exercise. Being trapped in this prison has made me stir crazy as of late,” he sizes up Antok who only crosses his arms.

“Spar with me,” he extends.

Lotor is surprised by this. He quickly recovers to quip, “oh? What makes you think you’re my equal match?”

Antok grouses incoherently. “You said it’s for exercise, not an honour match,” his tail swishes behind him in agitation.

Lotor narrows his eyes calculatingly. “Fair enough,” he agrees in a neutral tone and promptly walks to the center of the room as he unsheathes the sword on his side. He flicks his gaze to Keith, regarding him a moment, before returning back to Antok with a stoic expression settling his angular features. “Well?”

Antok tersely follows to oppose him in the center platform, pulling out the luxite blade resting against his back as it lights up and transforms to its full breadth. Keith watches intensely as after a brief pause, his eyes struggle to keep up with the lightning motions. Lotor is _fast_ , faster than him and with more reach. What Antok lacks in speed he makes up for in strength and constitution. Lotor dodges quickly, his actions blurred with the voracity of his twirling. His long broadsword whirls around his hand with a flick of his wrist so instantaneously Keith’s ears pick up on a whistle as it cuts through air.

Antok lunges at the prince who expertly dodges underneath the blade, sidestepping and brings his own to knock Antok’s from his grip. The larger Galra stumbles from the impact, something Keith hasn’t seen in a while, and he watches in perfect clarity as Lotor pivots like a dance and uses the momentum to spin, landing an acrimonious heeled kick into Antok’s sternum with a sickening crack. His teacher falls back several feet, winded from the pain. Lotor languidly twirls his sword in nonchalance as he makes his way beside the Blade and stomps down unceremoniously on his chest, the sword snapping to a halt just centimeters from his throat.

There’s a growl again, similar to the one he’d given Shiro but less urgent, as if only to gently caution rather than threaten. “Yield,” Lotor speaks, his commanding tone low and deliberate.

Antok doesn’t reply, merely glares up at the prince. Lotor pushes harder on his chest, forcing a grunt out of him. “I said,” the sword gently touches his neck, “ _yield_.”

The tone of Lotor’s voice does something to Keith’s heart, stuttering in his chest, and all he can do is look at the scene in awe. There’s a raw power that permeates the air and makes his nerves buzz beneath his skin in anticipation, fear, excitement. “I yield,” Antok hisses. A beat later he’s being let up.

Keith notices he’s barely harmed even after such an impact. That’s right, this was sparring, neither were acting with intention to kill. Lotor’s fighting style is everything Keith wants to learn, even if he has to adapt it slightly for his lack of reach. He looks longingly at Lotor with reverence, unable to school his awe as he sits silently in amazement. A sharp side glance of blue meets his own violet gaze before flicking down to Keith’s mouth and away again. His lips are slightly parted from his stun and he flushes, snapping his mouth shut at the realization with a soft click.

A sudden eagerness rushes over Keith. “Spar with me next,” he says, fixing the prince with a determined gaze.

Lotor winces before turning to face Keith more. There’s a sheepish expression on his face, “I don’t think that’s—,” Antok cuts him off.

“Alright.”

Both Keith and Lotor gawk at the massive Blade from across the room. Lotor protests immediately. “I hardly think that’s appropriate,” he hisses toward Antok who, completely unphased, meets his eye steadily.

There’s a subtle smirk to his expression now as he regards the prince, “here I thought you were military grade.”

Lotor runs a hand through his hair before glancing back over at Keith. “Fine,” he states, a frown tugging at his mouth. Keith perks up immediately and quickly stands, water pouch abandoned on the floor. He grabs his luxite blade and twirls it in his hand to ready himself but he’s nowhere near as  dexterous as Lotor. That’s what the sparring is for anyway, to practice and quicken his reflexes. Even failure is a lesson worth learning.

He trades places with Antok and readies himself as he’s been taught, a stance used to assess an opponent before switching to defense or offense. Lotor stands  a few meters away and falls into a different stance than he’d had with Antok, this seemed more defensive than offensive. Was this because Keith was smaller? Perhaps he changed stances because he’s larger than Keith and the same strategy used against Antok wouldn’t work this time. There’s an awkward pause. Where Lotor had immediately assaulted Antok with swordplay, here he hung back in a defensive position. Keith would have to attack first, he knows, but he also knows that the person who attacks first is at a disadvantage without the element of surprise to help.

“Well?” the prince calls flatly. It mimics the one he gave to Antok, but this time is less irritated, an obvious front.

Keith grows increasingly frustrated as seconds pass. Finally deciding to rely on instinct this time, he launches forward to which Lotor readjusts for, leaving a sizable gap between his legs. Keith suddenly drops to his side and slides through them before using his hands to stop and lift himself as one of his legs swipe Lotor’s own from behind. The prince anticipates the kick and gracefully jumps away turning to kick Keith in kind. His leg stops short, as if he’d thought better of the action, and whips his sword around to clash with Keith’s who is partially kneeling. The impact slides him back a ways on the metal floor and he quickly stands, sword in front of him and mirroring Lotor’s movements.

A quick beat passes before in a flurry, Lotor disappears from his sight only to reappear much closer with a sword descending upon him. Keith easily blocks with his own. He frowns, assessing the battle before he snarls, “stop holding back!” Lotor is thrown off by the accusation but relents and immediately grips his sword hilt tighter in response.

The next swing is not so kind, or the next, or the one after that. Keith is staggering back as he fends off a rush of heavy blows that send small sparks in the air with each parry. This is more like it. He knows this isn’t Lotor’s full strength but it’s perfect for sparring. Enemies are not kind on the battlefield. Learning by that standard makes for better soldiers.

The hilts of each blade scrape and press down against each other in impasse, sparks settling down as Lotor puts his full weight into it. Keith is defiantly making eye contact, fire in his eyes, in his veins. He can _win_ this. The pressure of Lotor’s weight pushes him down and he’s too small to counteract it. A thought crosses his mind and he smirks. If he can’t push Lotor away with his strength, he’ll throw him of balance instead.

Keith drops to the ground languidly and according to plan the prince staggers foreword enough for Keith to kick him square in the chest. He swiftly adjusts and twists to his feet fluidly, giving his blade a brief whirl in excitement. Lotor is still trying to ready himself, leaving a perfect opening. Keith darts forward at lightning speed and moves in to slash his sword he knows can be deflected. Lotor twists his own sword to fend off the clash, giving Keith the perfect opportunity to grasp his wrist with his free hand. He pulls Lotor’s arm around him as he twirls into the larger man, back to chest.

Lotor grunts at the force that hits him and Keith uses his built up momentum to grasp onto the other’s arm and snap forward, throwing Lotor to the ground in front of him. He snatches his luxite blade from the floor as Lotor reaches for his own and flips around to pin the prince below him.

Keith huffs in agitation as Lotor narrowly parries and tumbles forward in an attempt to switch their positions. Keith falls limp again and Lotor falls short, instead moving to roll them over sideways, but Keith foresees this and forces his legs open between the other’s. The prince falters again and Keith takes the opportunity to wrap his legs around Lotor’s waist. Twisting with his hips and elbows shoving off the ground, he expertly flips them so that Lotor is flat on his back, and Keith’s blade is millimeters from his throat.

They stay there a moment, as the rest of the battle catches up to them and the adrenaline starts to dissipate. Keith glances down the moment he realizes there’s a gentle pressure against his stomach. Delicately resting from his waist to his navel is Lotor’s sword. It’s a stalemate. He can’t help but tense, accidentally squeezing his thighs tighter around Lotor. He abruptly remembers their position at the pressure between his legs. Keith’s gaze snaps to the man under him to find wide eyes that equal his own and he flushes suddenly.

“I yield,” they say in unison. Shocked, they both inhale sharply.

Keith feels frozen in time, this all seems too surreal but he can’t break his gaze away from the crystal blue in front of him, cased in gold, mortification temporarily thrown out the airlock. There’s a sharpness to Lotor’s scent he can’t place and his nerves are set alight as it smothers his lungs. After what feels like forever, the sword is removed from his stomach and is replaced with two firm hands on either side of his waist. He’s delicately being lifted off of Lotor as the latter rises and sets Keith down to the side of him, expression glazed over. The prince grasps the hilt of his blade and quickly sheathes it as he rises from his position on the ground.

Keith blinks, registering where he is, and scrambles up from the floor as his luxite blade shifts back to its dormant size by his feet. His face feels hot. “Thank you,” he murmurs before glancing over at Antok who stands with a smirk and gleaming eyes directed at Lotor.

There’s a stiff jilted motion as the prince turns enough to speak to him. Keith notes the other man’s cheeks are dusted a subtle deep purple. He can’t tell if it’s from the exertion or the predicament moments before. He has a feeling it’s not the former. “I, yes, er— Well done,” Lotor barks awkwardly before stalking away, grip on his sword.

Keith catches the shriveling look the prince casts at Antok before completely exiting the room. He sighs before turning toward his teacher. “What was that about?” he cocks his head in question.

Antok shakes his head, “only an old fool’s amusement, kit.”

Keith bends down to pick up his knife before walking up to his water pouch, lifting it to his mouth to sip gently from the straw. His internal cogs churn, “was that a body language thing?” He fully turns in attention to Antok.

The Blade nods tersely. “He was already weary of facing you. He was right to be. You ended up with a compromised Alpha you forced into a submissive position and he yielded.”

Keith mulls over the information. “Compromised?” he presses.

“You were straddling him,” Antok states flatly.

“We were fighting.” Keith can’t help but add a playful lilt to their conversation.

“And then you were not, yet you remained,” Antok grumbles.

The image of Lotor flushed and wide eyed below him pushes to the forefront of his mind. He analyzes the memory and begins to realize just _how_ flustered the prince had been beneath him, Keith’s knees and thighs wrapped tightly around his waist. It makes his hair stand on end and his skin prickle, but not unpleasantly. _Oh_. _Definitely compromised._

“Why didn’t he want to face me?” Keith probes.

“You are an Omega,” Antok states as if it explains everything. Keith gives him a blank stare, waiting for further elaboration. His teacher releases a long sigh. “Although he is trained to withstand it, it is apparent the prince does not keep regular company with Omega. His tolerance to the tug of instinct is weaker than he lets on. It’s why I let him near you when you were distressed.”

Keith worries his bottom lip, gaze flitting to the side. “So his instincts are telling him to protect me?” he enquires.

Antok hums, “at the very least, he takes issue with actively harming you.”

Well, that is certainly educational. Keith recalls the halted kick from their spar and frowns. “He was holding back on me even after I yelled at him,” he tenses.

A silence fills the space between them. “Yes,” Antok states plainly, “he fought cleanly if that is what you’re asking.”

Keith’s free hand flexes. Their enemies play dirty, to practice with clean combat is fruitless. “Good to know,” he hisses with frustration. Antok moves closer to him and rests a hand atop his head, stroking the stray hairs down.

“Kit,” he starts gently, “you’re a valued warrior. Do not fret so much.”

Keith sags and keeps his voice barely above a whisper, “okay.” This seems to satisfy Antok enough as he removes his hand.

“Clean up and rest for today, you’ve earned it,” he says warmly, and Keith can’t help but smile at the praise. He nods.

Antok turns to leave but halts just before the door. “And Keith?” his voice is deliberate. Keith never hears his name from Antok, only ever _kit,_  as it has been since shortly after he joined the Blade of Marmora. Something serious is being conveyed here.

“Yes?” he responds nervously.

“See Medhi. She needs to check up on you,” and with that, Antok is out the door.

Keith’s mind swarms with a million ideas as to what it could be. He sighs. _Only one way to find out._ And he quickly follows suit to Antok’s leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in intervals, so hopefully the writing isn’t too choppy. Anywho, enjoy Keith’s suffering and the cryptic Alpha to Alpha body language that goes over his head.

Keith rests his head on the couch by Medhi’s desk in the clinic. His eyes are closed, and he’s focusing on his breathing while she grabs him a pouch of water from the back makeshift fridge once used for housing test samples. Air shakily drags into his lungs before rushing out. The world is spinning around him like he’s in aeronautical training again, back on Earth, alone. The gentle tapping of Medhi’s clinic shoes halt beside him and he cautiously opens one eye. She’s holding out the ice cold pouch to him, straw already in place and ready for him to drink.

“I didn’t think drawing that amount of blood would wear you out. My data says it should’ve been safe for humans,” she says apologetically.

Keith slowly sits up, delicately swinging his legs back over from his resting position to plant firmly on the ground. He keeps his head low, away from the blaring lights, and gingerly takes the water pouch from the doctor. He sips it slowly. It helps settle the nausea whirling in his insides.

“It would be fine,” he begins weakly, “if you hadn’t already taken that same amount the past two days.”

Her expression is nothing short of sheepish. “I know, I’m sorry,” she waves apologetically, “if it helps, I have enough samples for my research for a really long time.”

Keith looks up grumpily at her, “I’m not doing this again unless I’m sick,” he hisses. She nods in reluctant acceptance at the admonishment.

There’s a pause of Keith slowly sipping the water, the replenishment of fluids welcomed readily by his tapped body. “Medhi,” he extends in question and continues when she hums acknowledgment, “how do you know so much about human anatomy?”

She doesn’t seem taken aback by the question, as if she’s expected this from the beginning. “It took you this long to ask? After knowing me for a decaphoeb?” she chuckles a little under her breath but it dissipates into silence. And then, in a soft morose tone, “we get a lot of dead bodies from rebels. I’ve had my fair share of handling many species in a way that no one will miss...anything I can use for my research I’ll take.”

Keith stops drinking and chances a glance up at her, haloed by the overhead lights. She looks tired, he can’t help but feel she’s regretful. She continues and her voice becomes neutral again, almost warm, “but more specifically, my bondmate has had a lot of contact with humans. When he went to Earth he was able to download an obscene amount of data on the life there. There just happened to be more about human anatomy. So, after contact with humans and with the information I studied from that data, I started my research.”

She meets Keith’s eyes. “I’ll admit I don’t know everything. But I _am_ an expert in Galra biology, that part’s my job, and I’ve spent years learning about the changes in biology for half breeds. Many of our Blades are half Galra. So, for you, I’m cross referencing between those two data sets. It’s a little different for each case, depending on what the other parent’s species is, but I know enough to _help_. That’s what matters most anyway, right?”

Keith continues sipping from the water pouch and absorbing her words. He perks up in curiosity as his mind roves over a particular term. “What’s a _bondmate_?” he asks softly.

Medhi freezes momentarily before then moving to sit gently beside Keith. “Well,” She begins, rubbing her hands gently against her thighs as she searches for the proper phrasing, “a _mate_ is someone you’re with, emotionally and physically. But it can be temporary, impermanent.” Keith nods slowly in understanding, urging her to continue. “So a _bond_ mate is a mate that you are bonded to body _and soul._  That’s permanent.”

Keith shakes his head, “I don’t understand the difference.”

She regards him a moment, before her gaze clouds over as she loses focus, staring off into an unknown distance. “Galra only fall in love once, kit,” she states with voice just above a whisper. Keith turns, dismayed, to look at her.

“But I thought, I mean, you _said—_ ,” he swallows to gather himself, “then how can someone have a mate and not just a bondmate?”

She smiles, focus returning to her eyes and she turns her head to look down at Keith. “Mates are there to scratch an itch, doesn’t matter if that itch is romantic intimacy or sexual. But bondmates you feel here,” she taps the center of her chest, between her heart and solar plexus.

Keith mirrors the action and looks at his fingers splayed on his own chest. She chuckles warmly as she watches, “it mostly happens with someone you’re mated to, but that isn’t always the case. It’s uncommon but it happens, and when it does it’s called imprinting.”

Keith frowns, “if Galra only fall in love once, what happens when one of them dies?”

Medhi gives him a serious look, “love is not the right word, but it’s the closest I can give you. You can love a mate, but your bondmate means everything to you.” She doesn’t answer Keith’s question.

Keith notices the circumvention, cradles the pouch between his hands and eyes Medhi. “You said you have one…,” Keith starts, but he doesn’t know what he wants to ask so he lets the words drop off.

She sighs, slowly rising again. “That’s a story for another day perhaps,” she states firmly before holding her hand out for Keith to take it. He does, and is helped up with ease, grasping tightly onto her arm as he regains his composure from the lightheadedness. “Keith,” she begins tenderly as she holds onto him, “do you think you’re feeling up for your physical exam today?”

He blanches, gripping tighter suddenly, and his stomach churns. “I don’t think, I’m, I—,” he huffs in annoyance, “I’m not ready, not today, I need some time to…,” he trails off lamely.

She frowns, but pats his hands gently with her free one. “I know, kit, I know, but I’m going to have to do it soon. You’re half human, and I’m not sure how that clashes with Galra biology yet, so this is a very important time to find out the effects. I don’t want you to suffer anything that can be avoided.” Keith gives her weary stare. “I know you take issue with medical stuff, that it makes you uncomfortable. But, you’re presenting as an Omega, so that means you’ll have to deal with the biological results of that. Help me help you,” she proffers sincerely.

Keith looks sullenly at the ground before submitting. “This movement.”

“Tomorrow,” she growls. Her growl isn’t as commanding as Antok or Lotor, or even Kolivan. And it’s filled with concern.

“Three quintants,” Keith bargains as he regains his strength.

“Tomorrow,” she repeats with the same cadence.

“Two?” Keith pleads, eyes wide with anxiety.

This gives her pause. She scans his face for a tell of any falsehoods, but finds only honestly. “Okay,” She relents, “but you come here the morning of the second quintant.” Keith realizes that’s the best he can get out of her before she wrestles him into the back room.

“Thank you,” he releases the breath he’d held.

“You’re okay walking on your own?” she inquires while walking him toward the exit.

He hums in affirmation and releases her arm as he reaches the medbay doors. There’s a pleasant look on Medhi’s face now, but it doesn’t seem entirely natural. “Two mornings, kit, or I’ll drag you here,” she beams in a jarring display. She’s back to her mischievous antics once more. Keith nods aggressively in response, mainly out of fear, and quickly backs out of the door.

When the doors slide shut in a _swish,_  he sighs deeply. He needs a nap.

 

 

When Keith wakes up, two hours have passed, and he aches again. He glances hazily at the time on the side panel of his wall. He meant to sleep for only one, but it seems he’s slept through the alarm. Now he’s late for the mission planning and briefing he was asked to attend, and it feels like a thousand needles are jammed into his abdomen. He groans, turning to sit up, but ends up rolling onto the ground with a _thud_.

“Shit,” he hisses to himself. The pain makes his skin crawl and his spine ache, his brow slightly damp in tandem.

It takes him a few minutes to collect himself. He listens to his breathing, practicing like he’s been taught, and it alleviates the immediate sting of the affliction. This must be from Medhi overdrawing blood the past few days, at least, that’s what he tells himself. He doesn’t want to think about what else it could be without Antok or Medhi nearby, lest he panic.

Finally, he’s able to push himself up and shakily rise to his feet. He shuffles into the small adjacent bathroom to inspect his state of disarray in the mirror. His eyes a ringed with red, and there’s cooling sweat from his brow that affixes his bangs to his forehead. Groaning in frustration, he turns the faucet on and splashes water in his face. The towel he dries with doesn’t smell like anything and it makes Keith’s heart twinge in a strange way, like a hollow ache that makes him feel empty.

His eyes dart back to his disastrous appearance. It won’t fool anyone, but it’s much better than it was. That’s all he really needs. The pain has ebbed away to a tolerable soreness. _Good_ _riddance_ , he thinks to himself. He quickly ruffles the front of his hair and combs through it with his fingers until his appearance is amenable enough. With any luck, he’ll look less like death by the time he reaches the meeting.

The farther Keith walks away from his room, from the threshold of it, the more he realizes he wants to go back. It feels _off_ to him, wanting to hide away, like there’s something inside him that’s urging him to stay where it’s safe and familiar. He swallows the lump in his throat and hopes the sharp pains won’t return during the discussion and briefing. His feet feel like he’s walking in wet cement and he can already hear shouting from the meeting room that makes his heart pound as he approaches.

He pauses outside the room, hiding under his hood again, and swallows as he listens. He doesn’t need to strain to understand what volatile words are being flung around as they come through quiet, but in perfect clarity. He can hear Shiro and Allura, and even Pidge’s older brother Matt. Keith knows Antok is inside, yet he remains silent as venomous insults and accusations are flung at no one but Lotor. It makes Keith’s heart hurt, both seeing his friends in a newer negative light but also that no one is there to stand up for the prince. He’s there, all alone, surrounded by people who despise him or at the very least distrust him.

The ache in his chest matches the affliction he feels in his midsection. Schooling his face does nothing to hide the annoyance at the vindictive energy being flung about the room. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he enters, and the fighting that seemed distant on the other side of the door is now suddenly blaring in his senses. A palpable tension hangs in the air and Keith can feel Shiro and Allura seething, glares directed at Lotor who looks no happier about the situation than the others. Matt hangs back by the far end of the room, daggers for eyes. Kolivan lingers by the digital map matrix and Antok leans against the wall adjacent to the door as if none of this phases him, expression facile.

Keith quickly makes his way to Antok’s side and crosses his arms to mirror his teacher. It helps make him feel less vulnerable in this nest of vipers. “You’re late,” Antok whispers.

Keith frowns, “sorry...I wasn’t feeling well. Medhi took a lot of blood.” Antok nods his acknowledgment and turns his attention back on the issue being debated.

Keith’s missed the context of the disagreement by being late and is only enlightened when Allura turns her head toward Antok. “Antok will accompany you to the base if you’re so insistent on going,” she hisses and her gaze flicks back to Lotor.

Antok shifts by Keith’s side, as if regarding him before turning back to the group. “No,” he states gruffly.

Everyone in the room is taken aback, including Kolivan. Keith looks up at him curiously as he continues. He notices Antok’s attention is aimed at Lotor. “If Lotor goes, I must stay. But if I go, Lotor must stay,” he states firmly. There seems to be a second conversation going on between the two beside the main one.

“It makes more sense to send both of you if Lotor is so insistent on going. You’re a trusted and capable ally. I wouldn’t trust Lotor as far as I could throw him, but he knows the layout and guard routes of the base,” Shiro points out sharply.

Antok shakes his head. “No,” he growls firmly, “I go or he goes.”

The non-Galra in the room don’t comprehend the reasoning behind the decision, that part is clear, but after a few ticks Allura sighs, “alright, Antok will go and Lotor will tell us every detail so he’s not going in blind. Is that an agreeable arrangement for you?” Antok simply nods.

Keith’s curious gaze wanders from Antok to Lotor, who’s been quiet since he walked in. His violet eyes catch icy blue. Blue eyes that have been steadily on him for some time now, observing neutrally. Words are being said, things that are most definitely important, but he’s caught in this quandary and so the words do not linger in his mind after they’re said. Keith swallows nervously under the steady perlustration, and quickly turns his head under his hood to hide away. When he glances back, head still turned, he sees Lotor giving him a reticent look, jaw clenched. It’s almost enough to distract him from the tingling pain that plagues him. Antok breaks the contact by stepping in front of Keith to engage him.

“You will be alright, kit?” he asks softly.

Having missed the small details, Keith is confused. He blinks up at his teacher in confusion. There’s a soft chuckle and a large hand that rests on his head. “Kolivan and I will be gone for some time. While I’m in reconnaissance he needs to be out in the field with the rest of the Blades.” Keith frowns, worried. Now was not a good time for him to be left alone with hardly an understanding of what this presentation will do to him. Antok picks up on this and leans in closer so only he can hear, “Medhi will be here for pressing questions or medical help.”

There’s a pause, as if he’s wondering if he should relinquish more information. And then, “if you have _other_ needs — if you’re distressed or lonely, angry or sad, and if you’re overwhelmed by these feelings — then see Lotor.”

Keith looks up at him, puzzled, “we’re trusting him now?”

Antok hums thoughtfully, “not completely. Not the coalition as a whole. But with you? He will help far before he harms.”

Keith frowns, “that’s not reassuring.” He watches as the meeting members file out of the room exhausted.

Antok chuckles warmly, “you were fine when you were sparring. You will be fine now.”

Keith sighs sullenly before resting his head on Antok’s chest. “I’ll miss you,” he murmurs sadly, and tries to breathe in the comforting scent for as long as possible, committing it to memory.

The hand gently scratches his head through the hood affectionately. “If all goes well, we’ll be back in a phoeb. We _will_ come back. We won’t abandon you.” The ease in which Antok translates and acknowledges Keith’s innermost fears would be disconcerting were it not for the soothing accompanying it. Keith swallows thickly, forcing tears back. He never cries when others are merciless, only when he’s extended tender kindness. It frustrates him.

“You’re our kit, understand?” Keith nods at the love being conveyed to him. He doesn’t deserve it, but soaks up all he can get anyway.

Antok moves back to meet Keith’s gaze. “We’re leaving early tomorrow, you’ll still be asleep. Rest up while we’re away,” he says warmly before ruffling Keith’s hair through the hood and exiting the room.

As his scent disappears with him, so does the distraction from the pain. He grimaces, about to brace himself on the wall, before he realizes Lotor is still in the room, looking out a port window into the deep abyss of space. The prince slowly turns around and looks at him with impossibly blue eyes. There’s a hesitation there, as if he’s scared to say anything. He slowly makes his way up the three steps from the lowered section by the windows, carefully keeping a pace that won’t scare Keith away.

“You’re in pain,” he says with a measured tone.

Keith’s eyes narrow as he nears, something in him screaming to run back to the safety of his room, to hide away from everything. “And?” he growls back.

Lotor doesn’t stop his approach until they’re only a few feet apart, enough to catch Keith if he keels over in pain but not close enough to make him feel caged. “And we should go see your medic, so that you can stop being in pain,” he chastises.

Keith regards the prince for a moment, assessing the space between them. “We?”

Rather than the derisive chuckle that Keith expected, the prince looks displeased instead. “I am not so horrible as to let you crawl your way there,” he states quietly.

Keith sighs in defeat and the taught line of his shoulders falls slack. “I just saw Medhi, she drew a lot of blood earlier, so it’s probably that,” he explains.

Lotor absorbs his words. “Do you,” he pauses, fumbling for words, “ _would_ _you_ like assistance?” Keith gives him a quizzical look. “Going back to your room, I mean,” the prince adds hastily before anything can be misconstrued.

Keith bites his lip in thought. His legs feel like jelly and the quicker he gets to his room the sooner he can sleep this, whatever this is, off. He nods reluctantly. “I don’t think I can walk,” he states solemnly. He wearily gazes at Lotor who seems to be scanning him for injuries. A thought from the briefing pushes its way to the forefront of his mind, “how did you and Antok suddenly agree on watching me? And don’t say _it’s an Alpha thing._ ”

Lotor gives him a bashful look, something Keith wishes he could see more often. “We communicate in our own way,” he says gently. When Keith seems unsatisfied with the answer, he continues, “it’s an instinct. We came to an agreement because we can sense your,” his cheeks suddenly darken in embarrassment, “your _cycle_.”

“My what?” Keith deadpans.

Lotor shifts uncomfortably, “would you like help or not?”

Keith nods slowly, assessing the sting of pain. “My room’s not too far away, just down the halls, a right and two lefts from here,” he mumbles.

He’s trying to think of how someone as tall as Lotor could help someone as small as him when he only comes up to just below Lotor’s shoulder. For all the towering full and half Galra, Keith somehow ended up with the diminutive height genes. Would Lotor bend down to help shoulder him or would Keith have to ride on his back? He isn’t sure he had the arm strength to hold on right now.

Breaking him out of his mental stirring, he’s lifted gently off the ground the way Antok had carried him. He inhales sharply, staring wide eyed at the larger man holding him. “Why does everyone keep lifting me up like I weigh nothing?” he manages to say aloud rather than internally.

Lotor chuckles softly as they leave the room, “compared to most Galra, you’re as heavy as a cosmic wolf pup.”

Keith doesn’t quite understand the reference but comprehends the implications. He aches, and being lifted like he’s nothing should upset him more than it does but right now he feels comforted by being held. What a weak and selfish person he’s become. “Here,” he mutters to turn at the end of the second hall and Lotor obeys.

They quickly approach his door, and a wave of pain washes over him, causing a small whimper to escape. Lotor’s hold tightens around Keith and he halts in front of the door. “We should see your medic,” he states firmly.

Keith shakes his head aggressively and mumbles, “I’m seeing her soon. I just wanna rest right now.”

Lotor’s internal cogs churn as they stand outside the door. He sighs. “Alright,” he says softly, “but if you continue to be in pain, you need to see her.” Keith nods softly as they enter the room.

He expects to be set down at the door. Instead, Lotor walks him over to his bed and sets him down like he could shatter at any moment. The gentleness of his touch sits strangely with Keith. Here is the ruthless prince of the Galra, the emperor’s son, ex emperor pro tem, deadly in battle and in politics. Here is a quiet man with piercing blue eyes, with gentle touches, who takes venomous words and wears them as armor instead of retaliating. It makes Keith’s stomach twist. Where Voltron and his friends see only the former, he sees the latter _through_ the former. He has a feeling Antok and Kolivan see it too.

“Thank you,” he mumbles softly, as Lotor moves to take off his boots gracefully and set them down beside the bed.

He spots Keith’s sleepwear folded up on the chair a few feet away, grabs it, and places it gently beside Keith’s pillow so he can reach if he wishes to change. He wonders if Lotor is about to tuck him in too, but realization of what he’s doing hits him, halting him in his tracks before he can pull the blanket to cover Keith. Instead, his hands fall to his side and he looks back at Keith. “See the medic in the morning,” he blurts a little too loud in the silent room, and turns on his heel to exit.

“Lotor,” Keith calls tiredly.

The prince stops just before exiting, waiting for Keith to finish, but doesn’t turn back around to face him. “Goodnight,” he says quietly, hoping to convey his gratitude.

There’s a pause, and then, softly, “goodnight, little Blade.” And Lotor departs completely.

Keith curls in on himself in the silence, the pain ringing louder now. He’s not sure if he can change, his body too weak from exhaustion. He hugs a pillow to his chest and sighs wetly as tears fall without his consent. His body is weeping from the pain but his mind is gone. Forcing himself to think about Antok’s encouraging words and Lotor’s soft smile, he eventually succumbs to a fitful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: this chapter has a lot of weird alien science vaguely based off real science. First part of the chapter is Lotor’s point of view. Hopefully the pacing is ok, it’s kind of a long chapter. And sorry in advance...
> 
> Side note: when Galra use “little one” it’s in a literal sense and not how we’d use it infantalizingly.
> 
> Also thanks for the wonderful feedback! Ao3 has been pretty glitchy so it wouldn’t let me reply to the rest of the comments on chapter 4 but I want you all to know that I appreciate and adore your comments!!! I’m glad people are enjoying this weird lil thought baby I’ve had for some time.

Lotor paces slowly back and forth in the starboard lounge. It’s secluded, and he needs to think, to _process_. The ceiling height windows allow him to occasionally look into the calming sea of stars surrounding the castleship when he needs a distraction from his thoughts. The Blades had run over every detail of the base layout with him the previous night, just after he left the littlest Blade to rest. The little Blade...Antok trusts Lotor with him. He hadn’t challenged him, hadn’t tested him like parents are wont to do before letting an unfamiliar Alpha near their child.  
  
His hands clasp tighter together behind his back as the puzzle pieces don’t fit. He stops pacing beside the window. Keith _is_ Antok’s child, correct? Even if it is an adoptive relationship, found family amongst the Galra still works as if they were blood relatives. Most of all, why would Antok trust _him_ with this? It made the scenario even more disconcerting.  
  
Lotor sighs, focusing on a bright blue star in the center of a swirling purple nebula. He wonders how the little one is doing and if he’s seen the medic yet. It’s late in the afternoon by galactic standard time, surely he’d be up and about now. The prince worries his lip as his eyes lose focus. His instincts overpower him too easily. He shouldn’t care so much, he wasn’t supposed to. Allying with the Voltron Coalition was meant to be a means to an end. For a while it was. But then he saw the Blade he’d saved from suicidal heroics as things settled down and he was allowed into the castleship.  
  
Big violet eyes haloed by long eyelashes still haunt him like an eternal spectre, the image never quite disappearing from his mind. Soft dark hair framing the smooth angles of his face. Lotor had never seen such a mix of Galra before that moment. It stole his breath away, made his chest ache with a reminder of the betrayal he suffered from his generals, made his head feel cloudy and light. It was his weakness for half breeds that got him in this mess to begin with. It’s the part of him that’s been so indefensible, brittle to any sort of impact.  
  
Perhaps it will be the end of him, forever fighting this instinct. Perhaps it’s best not to become too involved with the Blades, or the small one in particular. Perhaps— The door to the lounge swishes open and he turns to inspect whomever has entered. It’s the smallest of the Paladins, the green one, and she seems taken aback by his presence in the hidden away space of the castle.  
  
“Oh,” she starts surprised but her eyes narrow suddenly when she realizes who it is, “what are _you_ doing here?”  
  
Lotor regards her neutrally before speaking, “this is a space for everyone, is it not?”  
  
She blinks rapidly in bewilderment, “I mean, yeah I guess it is, but,” her face becomes defensive again, “you shouldn’t go skulking around the castle. We don’t trust you yet, and honestly I think you’re just using us until you get what you need and then you’ll turn around and betray us.”  
  
Lotor looks unimpressed by the accusation, “you’re really going to say this to me while we’re alone? In a secluded part of the castle?”  
  
The green Paladin looks frightened momentarily before she moves as if to reach for some sort of weapon. “At ease, Paladin,” he commands, and as it stops her in her tracks he continues, “I wish you no harm. The sooner you all accept that, the sooner we can work together to end my father’s tyranny.”  
  
With his thoughts interrupted, he begins to make his way to exit the room. As he walks just beside her to leave she turns around to him, garnering his attention. “Stay away from Keith,” she begins. It’s not something he thought to expect from her and his eyes widen in interest. “I don’t know what all of this stupid Galra culture stuff is but Keith was human before he was Galra. He’s my friend and if anything happens to him it’ll be the last thing you ever regret. So stay away from him,” she hisses, tone severe.  
  
Lotor frowns and meets her gaze. “If only it were so simple,” he states quietly and he watches as her brows furrow in frustration. He’s not certain if he should relinquish any further detail and opts for a neutral approach. “Keith will be safe in my presence, I can at least promise you that,” he states. His exit punctuates his final word, not even looking back to see her expression. He knows he will only perceive disapproval there.  
  
Lotor finds that his feet carry him to the clinic. With the base operation underway, he’s left with nothing to do save for training and making sure the Omega doesn’t end up dying to reckless abandon with his own health. The metal door slides open and a very preoccupied doctor turns her chair toward him, jumping a little when she realizes who graces her presence.  
  
“Can I help you with something?” she states wearily, as if testing the waters. They’ve never really spoken before. He was locked up shortly after first arriving on the castleship, before an alliance was discussed, and unable to see their medic. The memory of setting his own shoulder back in place crosses his mind.  
  
Lotor nods his head in a short bow to show his respect. Doctors are important in his culture, and far too few in between. “I was curious to know if the little Blade came here today,” he extends.  
  
She frowns, “Kit? No, he’s supposed to see me tomorrow morning. Is something wrong?”  
  
Her answer worries him. “He was in pain yesterday. I tried to get him to come see you but he wished to rest. He told me he would see you today, but I wasn’t sure what to believe,” he explains to her.  
  
Her face mirrors his own concern. “I haven’t seen him all day,” she gets up from her seat, readying to make for the door.  
  
Lotor blocks her view, directing her attention. “I can retrieve him. He may be fine and currently training. If something is amiss I’ll head straight back here with him,” he proffers calmly.  
  
She pauses, scrutinizing him with sharp golden eyes. “Alright,” she acquiesces, then relaxes a bit. “Antok trusts you for some reason so I can’t really refuse your help, can I?”  
  
He gives her a small smile in gratitude. “I’ll come back with news shortly,” he informs her and moves to leave the room again. Against his own wishes earlier, his heart is pounding to see if Keith is alright. He’s not supposed to be so involved. That’s what he told himself, right? Yet here he is, briskly walking to the room he last saw the little Blade in.  
  
His father would call him pathetic, weak, unfit for the title of crown prince to the Galra Empire. He grits his teeth, jaw taut. His father is a monster. He doesn’t want the throne his father sits on. He does not wish to be the sword of his father either, shaped and sharpened to a point, made to cut down enemies of the Empire. Everything within him bellows, _howls_ , for him to be a shield, a defender, a protector. They scream to him louder, he’s closing in now on the door that separates him from the subject of his worries. He comes to a halt just outside it, listening for any sign of movement inside.  
  
“Keith?” he calls.  
  
No response.  
  
He takes a deep breath to steady himself before entering. Surely he’s either asleep or elsewhere. He tries to quell the nervousness swirling in the pit of his stomach. After he collects himself, he hits the button on the side panel, and walks through the metal door.  
  
Immediately upon entering, his instincts are shrieking that something’s wrong. The pungent sour smell of distress and pain and illness hits him, makes his stomach roil, his throat seize, his eyes water. The room is dark and as his eyes quickly adjust to the soft light of the floor lights he can make out a silhouette. Keith’s silhouette. Beside the bed and on the floor.  
  
Lotor rushes over to the fallen form and can see in full clarity now, darkvision adjusting. He rests a hand on the back of Keith’s neck, cupping it gently to turn his face toward him. He can feel heat seeping from the nape in his palm through the glove of his armor. Keith looks weak, dark circles under his eyes, hair stuck to him from sweat, breath shallow. This is bad.  
  
He growls protectively as he delicately lifts Keith up, cradling him with black hair resting beneath his chin. He holds him tight in fear of the little Blade slipping from his grasp into the void, never to be seen again. He turns from the room, arms wrapped around Keith to shelter him, hold him close. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blaring ceiling lights of the hallway again but he walks through the sting.  
  
Lotor rushes to Medhi as fast as he can manage short of running, afraid to jostle the prone body he’s cradling too much in fear he’ll make his condition worse. As he slides into the medbay, words can’t even form in his throat. Instead he whines, something he hasn’t done since he was a child. But it’s the least of his worries right now, he just wants Keith to be safe. The scent of distress eats away at his sanity. Something in his chest is burning: from fear, from anger, from sadness. None of it matters to him, only the Omega in his arms.  
  
The doctor stands immediately, shoving her chair out of the way and directing him with her hand. “In the back room,” she says, but there’s a nervous shake to her words as they leave her mouth.  
  
Lotor follows suit, listening to every instruction carefully. Just as he’s told he sets Keith down on the back operating table. Cradles his head as the medic grabs a pillow to replace his hands. Holds him steady as she injects an intravenous sedative. The rest of the world seems to be background noise, as if underwater or the sound of blood rushing in his ears in the adrenaline filled silent void of space.  
  
“ _Lotor_!” she snaps, as if she’s been calling him for some time.  
  
His eyes focus on her finally and his hearing comes back, the whirring of machines and low frequency buzzing of the lights filling his senses again. He blinks at her. He can’t manage a verbal response. “You need to leave,” she states firmly. He doesn’t want to leave, he _can’t_ leave, feeling firmly cemented to the ground, hands with a white knuckled grip on the edge of the table.  
  
Thankfully, Medhi seems to sense what’s happening. She stops, regarding him for a moment, and as calmly as she can manage says, “Lotor, the sooner you leave the room, the sooner I can make Keith feel better. The sooner he’s better, the sooner you can see him.”  
  
Lotor knows this is logical, mentally he knows this. But his body and his instincts disagree. A low, protective growl reverberates in the small room. She frowns, concern evident, “you can wait just outside the room. I promise you I won’t hurt him. I’m here to help, but I need you to listen to me so I can do that,” she says carefully.  
  
When he absorbs her words, he’s reigned in more of the instinct fighting him for control. He nods slowly, and releases his death grip on the table behind Keith’s head. Medhi observes him, thoughts stirring, before she helps him to the door while being careful not to touch him. When he’s just out of the threshold, they stare at each other, both shaken.  
  
“Thank you,” she breathes. “He’ll be okay, I promise,” she comforts him knowing full well it won’t do anything to ease the primal part of him.  
  
Lotor swallows, and the door to the operation room closes shut like a whisper from death. The medic disappears inside with the one person his soul is weeping for.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Keith wakes, his eyes take a moment to come into focus. He’s disoriented, and doesn’t remember where he is. His eyes scan the room he’s in when the lights stop burning against him. Medical cabinets line one wall, with harsh metal floors and a table with notes. A metal pole stands ominously beside him and his gaze tiredly follows the line of the tube into the crook of his arms, needle hidden under skin and gauze. There’s a shuffle by his feet and if he could he probably would jump from surprise. Instead, his heart only beats incrementally faster until he registers who is curled up on the end of his bed.  
  
He sobers immediately as he takes in the sight of Lotor before him. A chair is drawn up to the side of the bed, the prince curled forward, using his arms as a pillow, silvery white hair gracefully falling onto the sheets and framing his peaceful resting face. He’s completely silent, and somewhat reminds Keith of a cat in deep sleep.  
  
Is he here because Lotor feels obligated to help him? Did Antok tell him to watch over him? He doesn’t know why the prince sits at the end of his medical rest bed when there are better things to be done, but the presence is comforting enough. Keith still aches, but it’s dull now, as if his body is recovering. It could also be in part to the potential painkillers being injected into his bloodstream currently, but he hopes the pouch is for fluids and not pain. He’s tired of pain.  
  
“Lotor,” he calls, and his voice is so quiet it’s almost not there at all. He swallows, trying louder now. “ _Lotor_ ,” he croaks lowly, but louder than before.  
  
The prince stirs a moment at the call of his name, brows furrowing and sliding his arms out from under him. There’s confusion evident on his face before it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by surprise. “You’re up,” he says breathlessly. There’s something in his gaze that Keith isn’t sure how to translate.  His eyes are full of relief still muddled with concern, a soft sadness lingering, and a hesitation that Keith can sense in the coil of Lotor’s muscles. But amongst all of that, Lotor is oozing a quiet adoration as his gaze meets Keith’s own.  
  
Keith swallows thickly again, but he needs water to fix the roughness of his voice. “What happened?” he asks softly, careful to speak in a way that won’t irritate the soreness he feels.  
  
Lotor breaks his gaze and rises from the chair, looking down at Keith once more. “I’ll fetch Medhi,” he says in a soft voice that matches Keith’s, and he’s grateful for it.  
  
Keith watches silently as the prince exits the small room and is quickly replaced by Medhi after warped and hushed voices are exchanged from outside. She sets her tablet down on the table next to the cabinets and sits in the chair where Lotor had been previously. There’s a soft worried expression on her face that makes Keith feel ashamed for not seeing her sooner.  
  
“How’s your pain?” she asks gently.  
  
He thinks a moment, assessing. “I’m sore but it’s bearable,” he replies. She nods slowly.  
  
She’s giving him an odd look. He frowns in response. “Keith,” she begins. She hesitates, gathering herself first, and Keith gives her his full attention. “I...You— do you know what happened?” she asks instead.  
  
He sluggishly shakes his head. The last thing he remembers is Lotor putting him to rest after the briefing. Fear grasps at his heart with the thought that something’s gone terribly wrong and she gives him a serious look. “You were...ill. _Very_ ill. This is why we should practice preventative care from now on, alright?” He gives her a look of confusion, for which she sighs upon noticing. “The reason I wanted to give you a physical,” she begins to explain, choosing her words wisely, “is because most Omega are hermaphroditic.”  
  
Keith’s eyes fly open and his pulse rises. “Wh- _what_?!” his throat feels like it’s closing up.  
  
She rests a hand on his leg. “Keith, deep breaths. I’m not done yet,” she soothes as best as she can, but he’d much prefer Antok right now. He takes a slow, laborious breathe in and out before she continues. “Your Galra half has the dominant genes, but your other set of genes are human. The human genome is resilient, a lot like Galra, and I think what happened was your secondary sex organs were underdeveloped at the time of your birth. So the resilience of the human genome made to heal over those parts of you,” she explains, but it’s clear she’s struggling with how to explain Galra genetic science to a human who barely understands anything medical to begin with.  
  
Keith’s hair stands on end and a chill runs down his spine. “S-so what does that…,” he wheezes out, unable to finish.  
  
She purses her lips. “I’ve never handled a human and Galra hybrid before, so it took a while to properly assess the problem. I initially figured you were just sterile and could only produce hormones, that you just weren’t born with the parts that are Galra dominant. I never had a chance to confirm beforehand,” she pauses, studying his reaction as he absorbs the influx of information being laid out before him.  
  
“The reason you became ill…those dormant secondary sex organs started working again when you started your presentation, a lot like human puberty, they changed. But your body, the human part of you, had healed over them. It’s why you wouldn’t have known about them before now,” she continues.  
  
Keith stops breathing, hands trembling now. “What the fuck,” he whispers, growing more frantic, “what the _fuck_ , Medhi.” Tears prick at his eyes. He doesn’t like medical stuff, he never has. It’s always made him feel queasy, and being poked and prodded never sat right with him. Neither did the horrible smell of antiseptic and blood.  
  
She rubs his calf over the blanket in a soothing motion. It’s not really helping. He wants to flee, but he can’t even lift his legs. He’s effectively trapped in this hellscape, this dream he can’t pinch himself awake from. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with information, but the sooner I explain this to you, the easier it will be for you to understand and heal and learn how to deal with this,” she says cautiously.  
  
The tears in Keith’s eyes are in danger of spilling over now, clouding his vision and warping reality around him. Medhi rises from the chair she’s sitting in momentarily and grabs something from the tiny fridge. He wipes his eyes furiously to rid of the tears and as his hands move away larger ones are placing a cold water pouch in his, straw already puncturing the top. He looks up at her, emotionally and physically exhausted. “Drink,” she commands and sits back down where she was previously.  
  
He brings the straw to his mouth and slowly sips at it. The cooling sensation helps the dryness in throat and quells some of the anxiety whirring violently within him. Medhi waits patiently until he’s calmed down some before continuing.  
  
“Okay?” she checks in. Keith, with reluctance, nods feebly. She graces him with a small, warm smile before continuing. “You’re body started attacking itself, it’s why you were in so much pain. A little is normal for Omega, organs starting to work after not being used can cause some discomfort for any species,” she pauses, “but I had to...go in surgically to remove the excess around those parts so everything could work properly, take away the scarred tissue.”  
  
Keith sips the water steadily, trying to ground himself. “Medhi,” he begins wearily. She hums, and he continues, “I can’t feel anything that’s missing.”  
  
She nods slowly, “that IV is filled with some pretty hefty painkillers, and the healing tinctures I use are made to expedite the process your body naturally does anyway.” Keith frowns, trying to focus on what part of him is no longer there but he finds that a lot of him is numb. “Tomorrow, if you’re up for it, we can put you in a healing pod. You’ll be sore but not bedridden,” she says hopefully.  
  
Keith never fully trusted the healing pods. All evidence of exertion disappeared immediately, as if the battles had never been fought in the first place. Perhaps it just disoriented him too much for his liking, but right now it was sounding like heaven to him. He nods agreement. “What…,” he starts shyly, and she leans in closer to signal her full attention, “what part of me is missing?”  
  
She blinks at him. “Between your legs, you had a thick imperforate septum covering your second entrance. The reason it was causing you so much pain is because nothing could escape. It happens in some species sometimes, whether it’s because of hybrid genes or an odd natural circumstance.”  
  
Her words take a while to fully click in his mind. When they do, he inhales the water in his mouth by accident. Violent coughs temporarily rack his body and she stands to move and rub his back until he settles again. “Are you saying I have a _vagina_?!” he hisses.  
  
She frowns. “No. While I can see why you make the connection, they work differently. Not all internal sex organs work the same across different species. I can give you more details about the small stuff when you’re feeling better, but know that this part of you is Galra and will behave as such.” She pauses in thought, eyeing the far wall. “Honestly, because your appearance is so close to human, I didn’t think you would have a lot of the internal Galra workings,” she adds, but more as a personal note than addressing him directly.  
  
"I think I’m gonna be sick," he mutters as the nausea begins to stir again. Keith is tired. Tired of all this bullshit, this second puberty he didn’t ask for. Everyone is supposed to be focusing on the war, on defeating Zarkon, but instead he’s causing trouble because of some stupid hormonal changes. Now he has to worry about adjusting to this sudden body modification which was apparently always there anyway. Medhi strokes his hair gently, bringing him out of his negative stewing.  
  
“You know,” she begins softly, much softer than their previous conversation, and leans in close to him, “the prince was pretty distraught the whole time. When I came out from surgery, I was surprised there wasn’t a hole in the floor from his aggressive pacing.”  
  
She snickers quietly as Keith turns to her with large eyes, wide and curious. “I don’t think he really understands it either,” she states, “there was a moment when he brought you in, helped me situate you so I could find out what was wrong. He was running on instinct.”  
  
Keith eyes her and, starting to feel more like himself at the change of subject, snarks, “isn’t that normal for us?”  
  
She laughs, “I guess it is, huh?” She combs her hands through his matted hair, gently working out the knots, “but I think this was a little more serious.”  
  
Keith gives her a puzzled look, waiting for elaboration and sipping through the straw of the water pouch. “He was really protective of you,” she states with deliberation, “more than he should have been.”  
  
“Can you stop being cryptic for once?” Keith sighs, but it’s mostly meant as a joke. He’s, sadly, become accustomed to the lack of elaboration on Galra body language.  
  
She meets his eyes, fingers halting in their ministrations, “he was acting like your mate, kit.”  
  
Keith inhales sharply again, a little too quickly for his recovering body, and winces. “I’m, but, _what_?” he asks in bewilderment.  
  
Medhi ponders, before, “it’s something to look into. Antok would probably be able to know for sure, all I have is a theory. Regardless, you’ve essentially gained a free bodyguard,” she laughs at her own joke.  
  
Keith frowns, “what if I don’t want one?”  
  
Her face grows serious again, “then tell him no. He’ll listen.”  
  
Unhelpfully, Keith’s mind conjures an image from a textbook he read back on Earth in his elementary years. Sharks swimming in the ocean, living peacefully with little remora fish, benefiting each other. The real question now is if he’s the remora in this scenario or the shark. The thought of losing the comforting scent leaves an empty feeling in his chest. He has no reason to tell Lotor to leave, and the prince has been nothing but kind to him. His mind and body are too exhausted to figure things out right now anyway.  
  
“Medhi?” he calls tiredly.  
  
“Kit?” she replies warmly.  
  
“I’m tired,” he declares quietly.  
  
She nods, moving over to a cabinet. “Are you warm enough? Need another pillow?” she asks.  
  
“Pillow,” he murmurs as he fights the heaviness of his eyes. And soon another pillow is being placed beneath him. The bed in the recuperation room is much more comfortable than the cold metal table in the examination room he finds.  
  
Medhi gently takes the empty water pouch slipping from his fingers and sets it on the desk. She brushes excess hair from his face and leans down to kiss his forehead. “Goodnight, kit,” she says softly.  
  
Keith doesn’t know if he replies to her aloud before he’s dragged into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this fic was made to quell my need for an ABO setting that makes logical sense, but more importantly: plot. This chapter marks the beginning of plot hell. There will still be awkward puberty stuff that Keith has to deal with, and dynamics will still be a part of the fic since Galra society revolves around it, but that’s not the only element anymore. So buckle up for some wild cryptic shit being thrown at Keith, kiddos. Also lots of slow burn moments. Lotor isn’t in this chapter, but y’all will see him soon.
> 
> Also, I hope the voltron crew doesn’t come across too OOC. I haven’t watched it past season 5 so really I’m just working from memory — not to super out myself (definitely to super out myself) — also rewatching Lotor’s battle cutscenes bc his voice is like liquid gold.

Keith slowly opens his eyes to blaring, burning white that soon fades to the soft blue of a sky as his eyes adjust. It’s a calming blue, familiar, like the one he’d count clouds in growing up. A warm wind washes over him, a stilted happiness as if he’s watching someone feel it rather than feeling it himself. High pitched laughter echoes from a distance but from no discernible direction and as his hand rises to shield him from the blistering sun, disappointment washes over him. He sobers immediately as his eyes fall onto the hazy form of his father, holding his other hand and smiling down at him. Alive. Ah, this is a dream.

His father is saying something but he’s too far away now, fading in and out of existence and his mouth moves but only silence follows. Keith finds his little self’s feet pounding against the ground, sprinting for the mirage of a man who’d left him long ago. _Running won’t change anything_ , he tries to tell himself but he’s effectively trapped within the dream, watching out of eyes that both are and are not his own.

A rising plateau crashes through the desert floor, halting him, earth quaking under bare feet. He doesn’t know why his feet are bare, only the steady sensation of hot sand searing into him. Rocks clack together and their faces scrape and shriek. The ground beneath him caves and he’s suddenly sliding down into a cavern tunnel. This part he recognizes. The distant dripping through the tunnels, echoing endlessly, and the shivering cold in the absence of light. Keith looks around, taking in what he can in the dark. He isn’t crying right now, but he can hear his younger self sobbing quietly. The sound bounces off the cramped walls like a sad song. His dreams are merging with his memories.

 _“Keith?”_ He hears someone call and he notes the voice is young, a strange lilt to it. He doesn’t know who it belongs to.

Keith stares deeper into the darkness, past the thin beam of light seeping through cracks from above. A small hand extends out into the light, palm exposed, an offer. He finds himself gingerly taking it and being pulled further into darkness. All surface light has dissipated, the only warmth the hand in his own. There’s a pause, as if the other form is waiting for something. A soft glow begins to emanate from the person beside him, his eyes snapping up quickly to inspect it as the light grows brighter. What he sees takes his breath away.

Two sideways crescents rest beneath gold and blue eyes, glowing in a soft white light tinted by the lavender skin that covers them. In front of him stands a young Lotor, holding his young self’s hand. More lights glow softly through the skin on the prince’s exposed upper arms, a full moon sitting above another sideways crescent, held by a downward facing arrow’s head. He swallows, and meets the young Lotor’s gaze. There’s a silent pleading in his eyes that makes Keith’s heart ache. A soft pull on his hand tells him to follow, so he does, and quickly finds that caves turn to metal halls. The transition is jarring, disjointed, both worlds coexisting but from opposite spectrums and colliding into one another.

Figures march by, the metal of boots drumming against the alloy flooring. Lotor quickly halts as the noises make their way near, turns quickly and holds Keith against the wall, shielding him with his body and dragging them to crouch. All Keith can do is study the young prince’s face, marks still glowing. They look familiar, the shape. He knows he’s seen them somewhere, but his mind is everywhere and everything in this dream world is strange so the connection evades him. His face is young, rounder but still long, and his hair is shorter. Lotor stares intently at the soldier formations and listens intently, looks defiant but frightened. And he’s so, _so_ young compared to the one Keith knows.

Galra lifespan are different than human, he knows this, but he also knows that this Lotor looks like the twelve year old counterpart to his eight year old dreamself. Suddenly he’s being pulled up to his feet and rushed down the hallway that is safe from soldiers. They’re running now, Keith’s bare feet smacking the icy cool steel beneath him. The faster they run, the more turns they take, the easier it becomes to see his breath huffing out in clouds with each exhale. Keith trips at the realization, hits the floor and pulls his hand free to catch himself. When he looks up, Lotor is gone, and the violet lowlights flicker ominously.

 _“Lotor?”_ he asks into the void, and only silence seems to greet him until he rises to his feet again.

A shriek of pain bellows from the door at the end of the hall. It slices through the air, makes his spine crawl, his hair raise. It sounds like a wounded, feral animal. It sounds like torture. It sounds like _Lotor_.

Panic bubbles up in Keith’s chest and he bolts to the enormous door. He pulls, he pushes, but it won’t budge, and the screaming starts again, closer now and in perfect clarity. It’s urgent, as if the bearer will surely perish soon. Keith steps back and readies to ram into the door with his tiny shoulder, as if it would change anything, but finds that when he meets it the door is already gone and he’s stumbling into a large round chamber. He scans the room and finds at the center, strapped to a chair and surrounded by Druids, is Lotor.

Blinding light flashes in the room and a glowing, amorphous creature blinks into existence, Druid magic converging into a cage and forcing it down. It twists, impossibly long and sharp, like a jagged thread, and with unfathomable speed, spears Lotor through the heart. With every inch that drives deeper, the shriek from the small body grows more hoarse and desperate. Blood drips from small hands clawing the arms of the chair, and Keith can no longer make out Lotor’s face as his head is thrown back against it, body convulsing as far as it can in restraints. The sight curdles his blood.

And almost as if none of it happened, Keith blinks to find the spear of light gone, Lotor slack, and the druids disintegrating into darkness. He rises slowly, reaching out to see if the prince is okay, if he’s alive, but as he draws close his eyes are met with a glowing white gold, the blue iris he’s grown to associate with the prince completely gone.

He wants to say something, to know what’s happened, to _understand_. Was this a dream, or a memory? Or both, like it had been for him? Memories warped by a dream, corrupted yet more accurate than the truth itself. But it’s too late now, the dream is falling through his grasp and fading away before he can do anything.

A mechanical hissing fills his ears and he finds that he’s falling forward until arms wrap around him and hold him up. He squints and tiredly opens his eyes to find Shiro being the one thing between him and collapsing to the floor.

“Rise and shine,” he says warmly and Keith groans in response.

When his eyes adjust, he glances around the room and finds all of Voltron, a tired looking Medhi to the corner of the room. She gives him a relieved smile when he meets her eyes. He doesn’t see Lotor. He’s surprised that his absence stings a little.

“Hey buddy, feeling better?” Lance walks up to him and rests a thin hand on his shoulder.

Keith sighs, still clinging to Shiro while he gains his leg strength back. “I feel less like shit but I wouldn’t say I feel better,” he mutters grumpily and Lance laughs at the childish response. At least someone’s amused.

Hunk peers around Lance, “the pretty doctor lady from Marmora said you were injured and that you might feel better if we were here for you when you woke up.” He awkwardly gestures with his hands as he speaks and it warms Keith’s heart.

He hasn’t seen them all together in a while, not unless it was work or war related. It feels good. He wishes they could be closer again, have fun like when they first found Voltron.

“Keith!” Allura chimes and beams at him from beside Shiro, “glad to see you’re feeling better.”

It’s quickly becoming a pattern now as they all close in on his space and he’s promptly regretting his previous thoughts. Pidge knocks into his side and hugs him tightly. “I was scared for you, jerk!” she barks wetly, but the warmth in her voice gives her away.

Keith splutters. “You didn’t even know I was hurt before Medhi said something!” he protests, but he wraps one arm around her. They haven’t done this for a long time, especially not since his presentation started plaguing him.

“How did you even get hurt?” Lance inquires curiously and Keith freezes.

So Medhi hadn’t told them. He’s glad, but now he has no idea what to say. He frantically looks over at Medhi who merely gives him a bored shrug in response. He looks to Lance and extends, “puberty?”

The red Paladin bursts out laughing, and everyone else in the room is amused as well, but they take the answer and that’s all that matters. “Okay man, if you don’t wanna tell us you don’t have to, damn,” Lance responds, still shaking.

Keith finally finds he can stand by himself and separates from Shiro, taking a step back. His cheeks heat at everyone’s warm stares. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Medhi stalks up to his side and turns to the others. “Keith will be around soon, but right now he needs rest,” she informs them, as if to shoo them from the room gently.

“Right,” Shiro agrees, “we have to radio Kolivan for an update on the operation anyway.” He looks to Keith now, his _big brother_ face on, “and be more careful please. You’ll be the death of me.”

Keith smiles sheepishly back at them all as they slowly filter out of the room. Pidge is the last to leave, lingering a moment to glance back in concern at him. He’s not sure what’s prompted it, but it reminds him that they still care, validates him. He gives her a warm, grateful nod before she leaves the room completely and turns back to Medhi.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Keith thinks, tests his weight on either foot, “much better, but a little sore.”

She hums thoughtfully, “bedrest will fix that.”

He hesitates, wants to ask about the dream, the words on the tip of his tongue. Would Medhi even understand? “Medhi,” he begins carefully.

“Hm?”

“In the healing pods...is it normal to dream?” he inquires.

She looks surprised, eyebrows raising fractionally. “That would be highly irregular but I suppose it could happen,” she studies him, “did you dream?”

Keith nods, brows furrowing in confusion, “I’m sure it’s nothing, though. It was really strange.”

“The healing pods have an anaesthesia they use in the steam while they work to speed up our body’s natural healing, so if someone were to have a dream, I’m not sure it would make much sense,” she explains.

That was a safer explanation. He likes it, but remembers the dream clearly, and knows it’s not anaesthesia induced madness. He doesn’t say anything more about it. “I’ll go rest,” he informs her and moves to start leaving.

As he gets to the door, Medhi calls for him, prompting him to look back. “Antok is available later if you want to radio him, they’re not in a dead zone yet. Please tell him you’re okay. If he keeps pestering me I’ll lose my mind,” she chuckles.

Keith smiles at the thought. “I will,” he says, and heads toward his room.

 

 

When Keith gets to his room, the door sliding shut behind him, he throws himself onto the soft surface of the bed. He briefly closes his eyes, taking in the familiar scent of everything around him. Fragments of the dream dance behind his eyes from before and he frowns, opening them again. He wishes Lotor had been there so he could thank him properly for taking him to Medhi. He will, next time he sees him, but also wonders if he should say anything about the dream.

“Hey Lotor, I had a weird dream with you in it where you were possessed by a creature made of light, was that real?” he mocks himself quietly, “yeah, right.” So maybe approaching the prince about the dream would make him look a little crazy. He mentally reprimands himself at entertaining the thought at all.

Sighing, he curls to the side, facing the long mirror on the back wall to look at his disheveled state, white suit plastered to him. He should shower, change, make himself feel more alive so he doesn’t accidentally die in his sleep. He begrudgingly sits up, soreness prodding him from between his legs as he does so. Oh yeah, _that._

Keith growls, standing up fully now as he begins to slowly peel away the tight medical shirt, tossing it to the floor carelessly. He hesitates at the pants. Does he even _want_ to know what’s happened to him? One way or another he’d find out, so he steels himself and pulls his pants all the way off.

From the mirror, it looks like nothing has happened to him, nothing’s been altered. He looks paler than before, but he knows it’s from exhaustion and the lack of food the past few days. He shakes his head, grabbing a towel from the wall cabinet and heading to the small adjacent bathroom to shower.

His senses are swarmed with the steam as he turns on the water, making sure it’s scalding hot. Maybe he’ll melt into the drain if it’s hot enough and he can escape his now unfamiliar body. Stepping in immediately, he yelps. _Too hot_. His hand slams on the touch dial to the side, turning down the heat a little. Better. His nerves thank him, the screaming pain dissipating.

Under the warm spray, he finally relaxes for the first time in what feels like forever. He sighs, hanging his head. His eyes slide shut and his mind conjures an image of young Lotor from his dream, caging him in protectively to hide from phantom soldiers. _No_ , he thinks. He doesn’t want to worry about the dream right now, not while he’s unwinding from all this nonsense.

Unhelpfully, his mind educes present Lotor, growling posessively and devouring him with hungry eyes. Something stirs in his stomach. _Not this_ , he tries to push away the thoughts but they only come back stronger. There’s a fleeting image of Lotor grabbing his thigh, wrapped around the prince’s midsection above him, Keith’s hands encircling broad shoulders. His mouth waters and he feels something wet slide between his legs.

Keith’s eyes snap open at the sensation. “Nope, definitely not doing _that_ ,” he barks, quickly washing and nearly flinging himself from the shower. That’s territory he won’t breach without Medhi holding his hand. Not to mention the thought of _Lotor_ instigating it. He’s not mentally prepared for what his body does now, not alone and tired like this.

He marches into the room toweling off aggressively, as if to scrub away the lascivious thoughts, before hanging it from his head to sop up the water from his hair. He digs through the wall cabinet again for something comfortable to wear, throws on the only oversized black sweater he owns and his normal civilian pants. When he’s done, his stomach growls loudly as a reminder that he should feed himself before he perishes of starvation. It’s been at least three days since he’s properly eaten and it’s catching up to him.

Anything at this point is preferable to the thoughts from the shower. He frantically rubs his hair in the towel before hanging it up, shaking his head like a dog and moving it into shape with his hand. He’ll fix it later, more pertinent things await now. Grumpily shoving his feet into his Blade boots, he makes his way tiredly to the cafeteria. He prays that Hunk is there preparing food so he’s not forced to eat whatever sustenance the castle spat out.

He groans in embarrassment as his stomach yells at him again and picks up his pace until he nearly collides with the kitchen doors. When he enters, his senses swarm with a savory smell and he spots Hunk pulling something from one of the ovens. “Thank god,” he sighs aloud and Hunk turns to look at him, features lighting up when he notices it’s Keith.

“Oh hey, perfect timing! I figured you’d be hungry. The healing pods usually wipe us out, gotta eat to get our strength back,” he says warmly.

“Hunk,” Keith beams up at him, “you’re an angel.”

Hunk waves off the compliment sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, what would you do without me, huh?” he chuckles.

Keith smirks, “probably die of hunger.”

Hunk just warmly shakes his head. “I got some vegetables from our last supply run. At least, I _think_ they’re vegetables. They might be like...bitter fruit or something. But I found that if you roast them with some of that weird spice we got a while back they taste pretty good.”

Keith moves to grab trays for the resident chef connoisseur, setting them down on the table in front of them, “honestly anything you make is better than everything else in this place.”

Hunk hums his thanks and starts moving the food to metal trays. “Yeah, and I figure eating real food is good for morale,” he states. Keith agrees.

He pauses, watching the yellow Paladin carefully separate equal amounts onto different trays with tender care. Hunk has always been a beacon of warmth for everyone, he’s not sure they’d have made it far without him. To have him always nearby and a welcome presence, he thinks everyone benefits from it. “You know,” Keith begins awkwardly and only continues when Hunk gives him a reassuring glance, “you’re easily one of the smartest people here, but you spend a lot of time cooking…,” he’s not sure how to phrase what he wants to stay. _Why do this when you could be engineering?_

Hunk seems to understand anyway. “Growing up,” he explains, “my mom always drilled into us that kindness is one of the most important traits a person can have.” Keith watches him intently as large hands still fill out trays. “So even if what I do is behind the scenes - whether it’s engineering or cooking - both are important for everything to run smoothly. I’m not so insecure that I need to be praised all the time, but knowing I help brighten someone’s day just by making a good meal...that means the world to me,” he finishes, a soft smile on his features.

He looks homesick and Keith doesn’t really know what to do, feels bad for his inability to comfort. “I think that it goes unsaid a lot,” he proffers, “but you’re definitely the glue that keeps the team together.”

Hunk perks up, “Thanks, Keith.” He quickly turns back to the tray he’s working on and dumps extra vegetables on it, picking it up and handing it out to Keith. “Eat up, okay? Gotta get your strength back so you can kick more Zarkon-lackey butt,” he orders, tone genial.

Keith can’t keep the smile off his face. Hunk could always cheer him up, keep him on his toes, would always include him even before they were all friends. “Yes, sir,” he replies.

 

 

Keith walks through his door, tray in hand and spork in mouth. He sets it down gingerly on his bed and moves to set up the small communication box the Blades had given him. The frequency was untraceable, that’s what he was told, so calling Antok would be alright from his room. He places it delicately against the wall at the end of his bed, turning it on and setting the frequency for Antok’s com device. He calls and quickly scoots back on his bed so his teacher can see him better, picking up his tray and setting it on his crossed legs.

The feed is all static for a minute before Antok blinks into clarity with a mechanical chime. “Kit? How are you faring?” he asks immediately, concern in his voice.

“Antok!” Keith replies around the vegetable in his mouth. He swallows before continuing, “I’m alive if that’s what you’re asking.”

Antok chuckles on the other end of the line, “I would think so, considering you’re calling me now. That is good to know.”

Keith smirks, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Medhi said you’re annoying her.”

He watches as his teacher shakes his head, “must she tell all of my secrets?”

“Guess so,” Keith titters.

“We should be arriving at the base soon. When we do, it will be radio silence until we’re out of range again. I’m hoping this will be clean. In and out. It should be, assuming Lotor gave us the correct information,” he apprises.

Lotor again. Right. He’s still not certain why Antok would choose to leave him purposely with Keith. So he asks. “Antok?” he hums, playing with a yellow vegetable on his tray, “if you’re so unsure about him then why’d you make him stay here? Why for _me_?”

There’s a silence on the other line, only the digital flickering visage of his teacher a reminder they’re on call.

“When we first brought him on board,” Antok begins carefully, “I was certain he imprinted on you.”

Keith widens his eyes in surprise. There’s that word again. The one Medhi told him about. Something about bondmates. _It mostly happens with someone you’re mated to, but that isn’t always the case. It’s uncommon but it happens, and when it does it’s called imprinting._ Keith worries his lip in thought.

“Was?” he asks.

Antok nods slowly, “now I’m not so sure. But that’s only one reason.”

Keith scans the screen intently, watches his teacher’s face for any emotion other than hesitant but finds only blockades. “So what are the others?” he prods further.

Antok hums in thought. “I’m not certain how much detail Medhi has gone into yet. She’s trying to spare you too many lessons all at once,” he studies Keith, makes sure he’s listening well, “when Omega present, the length of time before their first heat is unknown. But when their body prepares for it, it can be stressful, especially if it’s the first you’ve experienced. They become easier with age, but it’s best to have an Alpha nearby to calm.”

Keith frowns, “Medhi hasn’t mentioned that yet.”

Antok sighs, as if disappointed in the doctor. “She will soon.”

Keith mulls over the words, taking them apart and putting them back again in an attempt to understand. “Heat…,” he says, testing the word on his tongue. It’s unfair of him to assess it by Earth standards but he has nothing else to do so by. “Wouldn’t that like, attract others in the wrong way?”

Antok tilts his head like a confused puppy, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Keith exhales, trying to phrase it better, “wouldn’t it make other Galra crazy for me or something?”

Antok chuckles at the logic, as if it’s a naive viewpoint. It probably is, Keith agrees mentally. “Medhi has done a poor job lately, I see,” he states with no real bite.

She _can_ be cryptic, that part Keith dislikes. But when she takes the time to explain things to him thoroughly he appreciates it greatly, even if it tends to set him on edge. “Well, she admits everything she says is from the standpoint of a Beta. So it’s all data she’s gotten or read about. She told me to come to you if I needed another perspective,” he informs Antok gently, waiting for further elaboration.

“It is a simple answer, kit. Alpha are not overly phased by the scent of heat, only heat from someone who desires them,” he states neutrally, but there’s a bashful hint in there as if talking about this is uncomfortable.

Well that’s certainly different, and he’s not entirely certain he understands, especially not how a system like that can even work. He makes a mental note to ask Medhi for further details later so he can spare his teacher any further embarrassment. “You said there were other reasons,” he pushes for instead.

“Well, one more,” the words seem to pull out of Antok as if there’s a resistance, some part of him holding onto them and afraid to speak them aloud, “perhaps I’m an old, superstitious fool, but…” Keith scoots closer to the screen in interest. “Back when you first joined us, there was a night we had to watch you closely due to injuries you’d sustained. I offered; you were under my watch when it happened, so it was my responsibility to ensure your safety.”

There’s a pause, static waving over the picture silently. “You were asleep,” he continues, “dreaming, maybe. But you said something strange. I almost thought I’d heard wrong, but then you said it again and it was certain.”

Keith is leaning so close he’s nearly in his food at this point. “What was it?” he asks in quiet interest.

Antok looks him in the eye through the feed, and tone serious says, “you said his name, kit.” Keith’s stomach drops suddenly, heart seizing. “You called out to Lotor in your sleep, far before you knew who he was.”

Keith’s mouth runs dry, his heart pounding now, eyes wide in shock. He asks, whispers really, his throat closing at all the implications of what this could mean, “I did what?”

 _A small hand extends out into the light, palm exposed, an offer. The rays illuminate the lavender of it, flushing out the deep colour to hide who it belongs to._ The dream rises back to his consciousness, tide flowing in once more like the ocean. Something is strange here. Just like the dream, reality becoming disjointed, both worlds coexisting but from opposite spectrums and colliding into one another.

“Antok…,” his voice is weak, barely above a whisper from the shock, and he can only hope it’s loud enough to be heard.

“How is that possible?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine the barren rooms the Paladins are given have fuckin IKEA wall cabinets to hide all their shit bc I’m pretty sure we’ve only ever seen Pidge and Keith’s room canonically. Keith’s room is empty and Pidge is a packrat. What’s the REAL story, VLD??!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 230 kudos?! I’m dead now. I love y’all. Might have to go back and edit some inconsistencies on this one later bc I wrote this hopped up on allergies medications since I got a new job that’s next to a fuckton of pine trees, my nemesis. But hey at least it’s posted, amiright? Also this chapter is long af.

The fluorescent blue lights burn his eyes the longer Keith wills away the shadows that linger on his face. He knows this. He knows what this is and he doesn’t want it. He slowly runs his fingertips from cheek to the crook of his jaw, tracing the curving shape until it hides below the neckline of his shirt. He does not know how far or how dark in hue these ancestral images expand across the landscape of his body, only that they are there, that they’re tangible and real. _His_ ancestry.

A memory touches the surface of his mind like fingers against the buoyant form of water. Kolivan’s claw running gently down an old print photo, Galra tech, one that shimmers as if it’s made of silver and light. By the immense care it’s held with and kept, Keith knows it’s a precious treasure. A young Kolivan sits in the arms of a woman, his face bare of any markings, and the woman’s markings the very same on Kolivan’s face today. Keith had asked about it, if they were tattoos in honour of his mother. That’s when the lesson came. A tender moment slipping through Kolivan’s calm, emotionally removed control. Galra children are born barefaced. When one comes of age, their lineage appears on their skin. _It is believed to be a defense mechanism for the young of a violently inclined race. Children could not be used as a weapon against other clans. It has been this way since our beginning on Daibazaal._

After millennia of interspecies breeding, it’s not the most effective way for Galra to suss out any traitors or to identify clans, something which no longer exists within the culture. But Keith knows he’s never really looked Galra at all, not like the other half Galra he’s seen. It made him an outlier: the strange one who couldn’t be trusted.

It’s the very same reason the Blade refused him when they first met, accused him of stealing his mother’s knife. He was grown; surely he had stolen it for his face remained bare, clanless. Keith had no discernible lineage. Before they took him in, he was just an orphan. He was too ill tempered for the humans and too weak for the Galra. _Demon child_ , he’d heard once as he wailed and kicked while being dragged off another child who’d instigated him. They’d deserved it, Keith still tells himself, telling him no one would love him if even his mother and father had abandoned him. Surely no one could love a child whose own parents didn’t love them. For the longest time, he truly felt alone in the universe. Too Galra for the humans and too human for the Galra, a foot in both worlds but belonging to neither, and here on his face the stamp of his genetic code unraveling the last threads of him passing as fully human.

He hates it.

At first, he’d wanted to know where his mother was, or what became of her. He wanted to know _why_ she abandoned him when she could have taken him back with her. It took months of prodding Kolivan for him to reveal the truth Keith had known all along. They don’t know who is mother is, because Keith is clanless and had no visual lineage that would connect him to the woman that bore him. And there are many, many Blades who have died. Many who could have been his mother. Because the Blades focus on their mission and keep those details to themselves, the memories and thoughts of loved ones, to get through the darkness of necessity.

Even after all he’d done, how far he’d traversed in the universe, it left the same empty feeling with him that he felt as a child. His mother left him, abandoned him, and never spoke a word about it to her fellow Blades. Perhaps she died on her way back, but the sentiment remains. She didn’t want him. Nobody wanted him. He’s alone and stuck between two realities pulling him apart from the inside out.

The pigmentation of the marks are pale, hardly visible in lower light, but he knows it’s just a matter of time before the shade deepens. It’s something he’ll only ever be able to hide under the mask of his Marmorite armor, the very same that has coalition soldiers shuffling away uncomfortably each time he enters a room. It may be a Galra organization that’s on their side but one made up of Galra regardless. He can no longer hide behind the facade of full human heritage. And then the harsh gazes full of distrust, disdain, will always find him whether he’s prepared for them or not.

His reflection frowns back at him and quickly studies the dark circles beneath his eyes before the light burns too brightly. He rubs them, hoping to alleviate the dull ache of sensitivity behind them to no avail. He needs to take his mind off the fears chipping away his sanity. He needs to talk to Allura about what Antok said last night.

With a weary sigh, Keith shoves himself away from the counter of the bathroom, exits, and blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light in his bedroom. He finds the scent of everything buzzing beneath his skin, but as of late the feeling is common and he shakes himself of it. His mind wanders to the previous night as he makes his way to find the princess. To the paradox he needs to figure out, truth fractured with the lack of comprehension. The stars no longer comfort him as they once did.

 

 

Keith’s mind is reeling, throat constricting and the room spins around him. The impossible is set before him, only impossible because he deems it so. How could he have said Lotor’s name before he knew of him? The very man who’d toyed with Voltron when he was Black Paladin, the man who has cut down countless enemies, the very same that resides within the castleship, had been in his dreams before they crossed paths. Keith wants to scoff, to deny or joke, but he knows this truth is clear as day. This is the man who calmed him when he distressed, refused to harm him during training, and carried him to Medhi when he was ill. A powerful, brutal enigma tempered with kindness.

He’s hyperventilating now, and can smell his own distress radiating off of him that further feeds into it. He wants to find Lotor, he wants to question him, fight him, he wants his comfort. And that’s the real ringer: he _wants_ Lotor’s comfort. He _wants_ to be held and soothed by his gentle hands, his hands that kill and show compassion.

Antok fixes Keith with a serious look. “Kit, _breathe_ ,” he says firmly.

Keith focuses on his breathing, or tries to, and looks back into Antok’s worried gaze through the flickering feed. “Kit, you need to listen to me. Deep breaths, focus on my voice,” he says with a tender tone.

Antok talks about nothing, talks about something Kolivan did during the day and how grumpy he was, talks about the stars he can see out the ship window. It helps Keith find himself again, let’s his nerves settle as he listens to the calming voice until the tension in his head is less painful. “Okay,” he whispers, and Antok pauses in acknowledgement.

“Do you want me to keep speaking?” he replies, and Keith knows he means the previous topic at hand.

Keith...isn’t sure what he wants. He wishes he hadn’t known, hadn’t been told. “Does he know?” he toes the line of comfort. Is this some elaborate joke the universe is playing on him?

Antok shakes his head. “No. Lotor doesn’t seem to know anything. I think...I think you are more special than you realize,” he begins, “perhaps the alteans—,” and suddenly he’s cut off by a blaring red light that crosses the other screen in the cockpit.

“Antok?” Keith calls worriedly.

“It’s fine, just an asteroid field,” his teacher responds tersely, but his face is pinched in concern.

Keith sighs, “I’ll...I’ll be fine. We can talk later. Just be safe, okay?” He needs to settle his nerves, sleep it off, surmount the unease he feels at the thought of it all.

Antok glances at him as he moves to maneuver through the field, hands on the controls. “You are certain,” he asks, but it’s more of a statement.

Keith nods. “Just don’t die before we can talk again,” he adds sourly, but it comes out with a humorous note.

Antok chuckles at the command. “Don’t chase your tail about this kit, it will sort itself out. Whether you say something to the prince is no concern of mine...and perhaps mentioning it to the princess or her advisor would be beneficial,” there’s a pause, and as a goodbye he looks into the feed once more, a softer expression, “we may speak of it later.”

The feed flickers out and Keith is left in the dark silence, food forgotten.

 

 

Keith finds himself not in the company of Allura, but of Coran, who’s fiddling with some sort of contraption used to power something in the ship. Keith clears his throat to garner the older man’s attention and, upon hearing it, the ginger immediately slams his head on the top of the machine, yelps, and then dazed from the impact stands properly a moment later.

“Ah, number four!” he smiles, recovering from the blunder, “what can I do for you?”

Keith blinks at the display sheepishly before he comes back to himself. He’s not sure how to ask what he wants, hadn’t thought about phrasing. “Is Allura around?” he tries for.

Coran eyes him, scrutinizing for a moment but only to search for deeper meaning. “She’s a bit preoccupied at the moment, is there something I can help you with instead?”

Keith remembers Coran telling the history of Zarkon. He was there ten thousand years ago, so of all the people to know about this, Coran is probably the most likely. He toes the ground nervously and glances around. They’re alone, so it’s as good a time as any. “I have some questions about altean magic,” he looks up, nervous energy bubbling beneath his skin.

“Well, I probably have some answers if you’d like,” the advisor responds in his chipper tone.

Keith smiles at the kindness. “So I know it’s quintessence manipulation, and that it can heal things and help open wormholes for the ship, but is there anything else it can do?”

Coran cocks his head to the side as he internally picks apart the question. “I wish it could be so easily whittled down to that, but sadly, it’s a lot more complicated. Is there anything in particular you’re thinking of?”

Keith shifts from one foot to another, mulling over his internal debates. Coran was a better option to open up about it to, a neutral party. Perhaps he knows of it. “Would it be possible to dream about someone you haven’t met yet?” he asks shyly, hesitant.

This takes the other man by surprise, eyebrows raising slightly as he processes the question. “It is,” he says wearily and Keith perks up in interest at the information, “but that’s not something alteans can do.”

Keith frowns, “then why—,” he cuts himself off before he reveals the whole situation. It’s new, something paradoxical, and keeping the details close to his chest seems to be the safest option. At least until he knows more about it.

“That’s old Galra magic, m’boy. Sadly, I don’t know anything about it other than that. It was rare ten thousand decaphoebs ago,” there’s a tentative pause, as if waiting for Keith to reveal anything else.

Keith’s shoulders slump at the knowledge. “So it’s unlikely anyone would know about it now,” he finishes for the advisor, tone one of defeat.

Coran pats him on the back gently, “I wouldn’t give up just yet. There’s still one person you could ask.”

Keith’s about to ask _who_ , but his mind supplies an image of long silver hair and piercing blue and gold eyes. _Lotor_. That’s the last person he wants to talk about this with. “I’d rather not,” he mumbles.

Coran shakes his head, “if you’re looking for better answers then it’s best to ask the person who studies it, right?”

This time Keith is the one surprised. “He studies old Galra magic?” That seemed odd for Coran to know.

“Many see the prince as a cruel brute simply because he’s Zarkon’s son but,” Coran taps his temple, “it’s here that makes him dangerous. He’s cunning and well learned.” And suddenly Coran is back to being his bubbly self. “Well, that’s all the wisdom this old snepgrunker has today. But if you’re curious, Lotor left the deck for his private quarters about two vargas ago.”

This gives him pause. Maybe asking Lotor about it wouldn’t be so bad. He needed to thank the prince for bringing him to Medhi anyway. And if Coran felt it the best course of action, then it very well may be. Through all the layers of ostentatious ridiculousness, the chipper man is the most experienced of them all and had been there when this war began. His insight means something.

“Thanks, Coran,” he says warmly.

Coran smiles, “anytime, number four.”

 

 

Completely disregarding the rules they had set with the coalition guards stationed outside of the prince’s quarters, Keith barges into the suite ignoring their questions and commands. He doesn’t answer to them, and frankly, he’s too preoccupied with his current mission to care. Find Lotor, ask him vaguely about all this weird magic dreaming stuff, figure it out and then promptly forget it was ever a part of his life. Putting it like that, barging into Lotor’s room is starting to seem more like a bad idea with each footstep. But he’s chosen this, adrenaline running through him, and he’s acting on impulse now.

He walks into the huge rotunda of the center chamber, one wall a full view of space and beside it, a curved couch with the prince looking over an old text with sharp precision, searching for something in particular or trying to memorize every detail. Keith finds his feet pulling him forward and he’s in the center of the room now, only stops when he’s certain Lotor can hear and see him.

Across the room sits the rigid and cut form of the prince; Keith studies the man before him. A growl rolls from the other man’s throat, “I told you not to disturb me in my private rooms, you incompetent ignoramus.” Narrowed eyes flick up to meet his own and Keith finds the most glacial sneer he’s ever laid eyes on. He inhales sharply and a shiver runs down his spine, shaken by the sudden attitude.

And then Lotor registers that it’s him and not some random, foolish guard that’s interrupted his research. The look is dropped immediately and replaced with something nervous, eyeing him again with less venom. “Little Blade,” he starts carefully, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

He’s thrown off, the words he’d planned slipping from his grasp and giving way to his whim. “I wanted to thank you...for bringing me to Medhi,” he tries.

Lotor examines him. “It would have been cruel of me to leave you there,” he states neutrally. Keith produces a pinched expression at the emotional wall.

He’s being polite. It’s the diplomatic kind of polite, void of any emotion. Keith decides he prefers the prince’s authenticity over his diplomacy. He thinks of the flustered Lotor gently lifting him from his waist, expression sheepish. He prefers that one, and he realizes how much dancing around one another has frustrated him. It rubs him the wrong way, the lack of integrity. He feels his brow furrow and his irritation bubble at the guarded expression he receives from the other. And he quickly finds he’s scowling, because walking on eggshells has never been his way. Because he’s had a rough past few days and no way to vent about it. Because the prince is right in front of him with his stupid, beautiful face looking at him like he’s no one. Because Keith knows that’s not the truth and he’s tired of skirting around the root of the issue due to some intricate biological reason he doesn’t understand.

He knows his scowl could peel paint without even looking at himself. He knows Lotor, with an unaffected front, still shifts uncomfortably under his fiery gaze. There’s a stretch of silence too long for comfort.

“You’re staring,” the prince says coolly.

“You’re pushing me away,” Keith growls. Actually _growls_ this time, in the back of his throat. The sound catches Lotor off guard and causes him to regard the smaller Galra before him, take in his entirety.

Lotor sets his jaw taut, biting down on nothing. Probably thinking of a way to deflect, Keith thinks sourly. Because that’s the word for it. Every time an emotional moment arose, the prince would deflect. With him, with the coalition, with Voltron, maybe even with himself. But then Keith is caught off guard, because Lotor turns his head away completely, exposing his neck. Keith inhales sharply, surprise followed closely by confusion. His eyes zero in on a faint purple blush creeping over high cheekbones.

“I— my apologies, I didn’t mean to cause you distress,” Lotor says quietly, looking at the floor in shame.

Keith finds himself relaxing at the admittance, the open display of submission setting his nerves alight. He frowns though, the negative thoughts and fears he’d been stewing in breaking the surface of his mind anew. “You’ve been kind to me, but it’s like you don’t want to be,” he says deliberately and meets blue eyes as Lotor gives him his full attention, “did I do something wrong?” he asks, the ire in his voice fizzling out into uncertainty, his brows furrowed in concern.

Lotor’s eyes widen in surprise. “Of course not!” he expresses, shock forcing his voice to rasp.

Keith crosses his arms in a manner to make him feel less anxious, holding himself, “then why?” The last thoughts of speaking about his dream give way to the nervousness roiling in his stomach. He should’ve come more prepared.

When their eyes meet again, there’s a walled off expression from Lotor, or an attempt at one, his true emotions slipping through the facade, “I suppose I have been selfish the past few quintents,” he admits regretfully.

Keith’s eyes narrow as they regard him. He’s still eluding the question. “I know I’m—,” Keith bites his tongue, fingers digging into his upper arms. What was he even going to say? _Worthless, irritating, a nuisance._ “I’m not good with communication, Galra or otherwise…,” his words collapse with his thoughts.

“That’s not—…”

Keith can sense a hesitation from Lotor, can see hands flexing as the Alpha’s mind works. And then, a hand is being held out, palm up, as if asking for Keith’s own. He glances up to dissect Lotor’s intentions and only finds sincerity on the other’s face. He looks back down at the hand. It mirrors the one from his dream but larger now. It calls to him.

“Come here,” Lotor commands, but the tone is pleading rather than fierce. Keith hesitantly stalks up the rest of the way to the prince before he stops mere centimeters in front of him. Lotor seems relieved as he gently takes one of Keith’s hands in his own.

Keith feels the knuckles of Lotor’s other hand trace the line on the side of his face, the very same shape he’d traced in his self-loathing. He trembles slightly under the touch, unsure of what is meant by the gesture. He finds he can’t meet the other’s eyes and instead stares at their conjoined hands, notes the tenderness in which Lotor holds him as if he’ll break, knows that the touch is completely unnecessary. His eyes follow the curve of a muscular arm. Lotor’s arms are long. His whole body is, long limbs and torso, but his arms reach lower than a human’s at his side. They’re powerful — meeting the sharp end of Lotor’s sword in a fight would surely be the end of him — but the reach alone is what he’d lose to.

Lotor’s fingers fall from his and he finds he misses the gentle weight. He flexes his hand at his side, adjusting to the emptiness before gazing back at the prince. “You bear the marks of the Se Kahn,” Lotor whispers, enamoured by the surfacing marks on his face, and Keith realizes just how close they are now.

“I don’t know what that is,” he murmurs, preoccupied with their current proximity.

And suddenly Lotor’s hands have fallen away and there’s a subtle hint of smugness beneath his facade, “perhaps one quintent I shall tell you of them.”

Keith frowns, “but not now?”

Lotor narrows his eyes, “is there any other reason you came here, little Blade?”

Keith can’t help but sigh at the pet name. Perhaps talking about the dream could wait until he’d thought it over more. Perhaps Lotor needed to be thrown off his high horse a moment. He huffs a laugh before regarding the prince, “I was wondering what you’re problem with me is. Care to explain?”

Lotor frowns, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Keith stares him down and, with the smallest hint of a smile, says, “when I was...incapacitated, Medhi said you were acting like my mate.”

Seeing the moment the prince fully absorbs his words is worth everything. Lotor’s eyes fly open and he chokes. When he tries to rise from his place on the couch in an attempt to flee, Keith lifts his leg onto the edge of it and blocks off the prince’s exit. “Why?” Keith presses, but Lotor stays silent and so he growls, “why are you toying with me?”

Lotor shifts, internally debating his answer. He sighs, relenting in the private space. “I’m not toying with you…,” he states simply, eyes dark, “I am a coward.”

It’s not good enough for Keith though, too easy of an answer. “You told us you almost flew into the surface of a star to escape your father,” Keith replies, unimpressed with the prince’s excuse.

Then, there’s something different in the air, a new scent: something akin to fear. Trepidation, perhaps. He studies the prince carefully, patiently waiting for elaboration. Lotor’s hand twitches. “Not—,” he starts, and then again, in a quiet and uncertain tone, “not about that.”

That peaks Keith’s curiosity, “then what?”

Lotor eyes him, expression soft and vulnerable. Keith prefers this emotional side to the cold undertone of neutrality. The prince gestures between them. “You.”

It takes Keith a moment to piece it together. And then, everything clicks into place and he understands. He regards Lotor with surprise, foot moving from the edge of the couch to meet the ground again. They’re not so different after all. The prince is like him, like he was before he became friends with everyone in Voltron, before he joined the Blades, the way he used to be before his found family. The prince is afraid of intimacy. The scent of fear, the fear of rejection. It makes sense to him now.

“I wasn’t myself before. Instinct overwhelmed me,” Lotor backtracks, but Keith is having none of it.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” he pushes, and finds the other mirrors his pinched expression from earlier. Keith elaborates, “we feel deeply, don’t we? The Galra, I mean. We’re emotional.” He used to feel bad about it, being emotional, until Antok assured him that it’s normal, that it’s _healthy_ , because he’s not just human but Galra too.

Lotor wears his guilt like armor. Hides behind it and prays it will help him through what is deemed necessary. Keith can see him clearly now. “You don’t have to hide with me.”

There’s hesitation again, as if divulging his inner turmoil is as painful as pulling teeth, rather than feeling freer. “I have been... _burned_ in the past, holding a flame too close, an idea that I was surrounded by family,” he rasps, but after a pause he chuckles darkly, “I suppose I deserved it.”

Keith shakes his head, “what happened to you then is not what’s happening to you now.” The logic seems simple to him.

Lotor hangs his head in shame. “As I said, I am a coward.”

Keith growls in frustration, “then pick one.”

Lotor looks at him, confusion evident. So Keith clarifies, “even if it’s not on purpose you’re toying with me, going back and forth between being kind and closed off. Pick one.” _Show conviction._  Like he’s already done so many times. Keith deserves that courtesy at least.

Before him is the person from his dreams, the comforting presence from both worlds. If they really are connected somehow, he wants to find out. Growing up, Keith never really dreamt much. Or if he did, he could never recall them. But the dream of Lotor still dances around his mind, something he can remember so clearly it’s almost tactile. It unsettles him, makes him feel like he needs to run from something but he isn’t sure what. He tries to quash the feeling as it bubbles up again, burning beneath his skin.

Keith quickly realizes that the burn is nothing he can will away. He swallows as he watches Lotor’s pupils expand, swallowing blue, heavy gaze bearing into him. The prince tilts his head, expression fractionally amused, “you’re a feisty one.”

Something shifts in him. He’s not sure what triggers it, only that a switch has been flicked inside him. The brightness of the room suddenly closes in on him, overwhelming his senses. It’s cold, and he can no longer feel his fingers or feet, but his face burns. The marks burn. The prince moves closer to him now and studies him, brow furrowed in concern at the lack of response. “Keith?” he asks, and Keith knows it’s his name, but it feels strange in his ears.

The lights are too loud in his senses now and he falls to crouch sitting on his heels, eyes closing, he groans as he hides them. He can hear Lotor rise from his position on the couch to kneel beside him. A large hand gently rests atop the small of his back to steady him. “What do you need?” a familiar voice calls, but it sounds far away.

Keith haphazardly waves a hand toward the ceiling lights while hiding his face in his other arm. The hand leaves his back and quiet footsteps fill the silent room. A moment later they return, and Lotor is crouching beside him again. The hand on his back returns, a gentle grounding weight. “Better?” he asks, and Keith raises his head wearily in fear of brightness.

The room is dark now, only illuminated by the visible stars out the wall of windows. His eyes adjust quickly and they find Lotor next to him, one side of his face highlighted by the soft glow of the universe. Keith huffs a sardonic laugh, “seems like this is a pattern with us.”

Lotor looks away at that, thinking a moment, before he fully sits on the floor and gazes out at the nebulas painting their view outside the castleship. “It doesn’t have to be,” he says softly, and Keith wants to believe him.

He follows the other’s gaze to a cluster of stars and sits fully on the ground, joining the prince. “Is this normal?” Keith asks in a whisper. There’s no reason to be quiet, but the shared space between them feels private, almost intimate.

Lotor breaks his gaze away from the stars to study Keith, “that question could be applied to a number of things.” _You’re going to have to elaborate._

Keith smiles at the inference. “You and me, I mean. I don’t have much to go on for Galra body language or relationships, not unless it’s the Blade. But that’s like family and not,” Keith pauses, “it’s not the same between you and me.”

Lotor studies him a while, long enough for Keith to grow pink in anticipation and embarrassment. “No,” he says finally and it catches Keith off guard, “it’s not the same. Because in all my years, I have never met a Galra as small as you.”

Keith blinks. It’s a joke. The son of Zarkon himself, joking. He punches the prince’s arm but it doesn’t seem to phase him, “I’m being serious.”

Lotor’s eyes glint with amusement, a small smile on his lips. Keith takes in the expression, is awed by it. He takes in the strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, the long eyelashes. Lotor is, in a word, handsome. Everyone on the castleship would begrudgingly agree that he’s objectively attractive, but Keith really takes it in now. It steals his breath away. He forces himself to break his gaze away, shyly tucking strands of his hair behind one ear and finding the swirling nebulas out the window once more.

“I don’t know,” Lotor answers seriously this time. Keith listens closely but keeps his eyes trained on the distant suns. “You’re the only one on this ship who doesn’t fear, loathe, or despise me. I’d say that already makes you an enigma. I prefer that to normal.”

Keith frowns, “I don’t think everyone hates you. The Blade—.”

“The Blade of Marmora views me as a necessary tool, they’re not exactly thrilled to be in my company. And the coalition is eagerly awaiting the moment I slip up or turn on them, any excuse to end me once and for all,” Lotor says, and he looks so tired to Keith.

“They don’t like us Blades either,” Keith hums, “I can't imagine what it must be like for you.”

Lotor smiles, “and luckily you don’t have to.”

Keith pauses, regards the man beside him. This is the first time Lotor has let his defenses down. Here, in the darkness of the guest chambers, staring out a window into the abyss of space, and sitting next to him of all people. When he first met the prince, he found that he couldn’t summon any anger toward him. Everyone else had been distrusting, but all Keith saw was the person who’d saved him from foolishly ending his life. Lotor had saved _everyone,_ yet they glared and sneered because before them was the son of a monster, and no good deeds matter in the shadow of that fact.

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be like,” he says, sighs really, and falls back on the cool floor, resting his head against the tile.

Lotor looks down at him, one brow raised in question, “what did you expect?”

Keith closes his eyes and smiles, “I thought you’d be more of a dick.”

He can hear the prince titter, “I’ve been known to be one from time to time.”

“Good to know,” Keith hums.

The algid surface of the ground cools the burning on the back of his neck. It’s soothing, just like the presence beside him. Lotor smells like fresh laundry, like cinnamon and lavender, like comfort and safety. He curls onto his side to touch more of the floor in an attempt to cool off further. He rests his head on the inside of his arm and in the silence he can hear his dream call to him again. Refusing, he opens his eyes and finds Lotor’s inspecting him closely.

“Perhaps you should see that medic again,” he says shyly, but his gaze doesn’t leave Keith’s.

The statement seems odd to him, and he furrows his brows in confusion, mouth starting to open in question, but Lotor cuts him off before he can ask. “You...you’re proestrus,” he says bashfully, but he keeps eye contact with Keith. It hits him again, the realization that his fellow Galra can smell him just as much as he can them, if not more. 

 _Proestrus_. There’s that term again, something Medhi used briefly. It’s on their list to discuss soon, especially now that his body is healed. “Can she do anything about it?” He raises, unconvinced.

Lotor doesn’t respond, but his face tells Keith everything. _No._ He sighs, and then defiantly, “I’m comfortable right here.”

Lotor’s gaze is soft, and Keith finds he misses its gentle weight when it turns back to the window. The prince rests one arm over a raised knee. “Okay,” he relents.

Keith smiles, “okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all if you wanna scream at me or with me pls follow my VLD/secondary main twitter @marmorhys - I give updates about posting there too


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I’m not dead I’m just moving soon & then I had a cold to get rid of. AND GUESS WHAT THIS AMAZING PERSON MADE SOME AMAZING FANART OF MY FIC PLS CHECK IT OUT: https://eatyourhell.tumblr.com/post/178772728041/i-may-have-doodled-this-amazing-and-beautiful-fic
> 
> Also shameless self promotion: if any of you like The Dragon Prince, I made some Runaan charms that I need to sell so feel free to check them out @ https://crybabycleric.bigcartel.com

Keith opens his eyes to disorientation. It’s dark, and the silence is deafening. His heart pounds against his ribcage at the absence of sound: the absence of air vents whirring, of carbon dioxide scrubbers humming beneath the metal. He shoots up into a sitting position, eyes adjusting quickly to the low lighting in the room. _His_ room. But hadn’t he just been with Lotor? He frowns, shuffling forward on the bed to stand. Something’s off.

He scoots off the bed, swiftly strides to the entrance of his room and presses his palm against the aloy door but it does not open. The silence permeates the air, makes his hair stand on end; the only noise the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, the sound of his heart beating rhythmically faster. He rests his head against the cool metal frame, eyes sliding shut, and a wind caresses his form as the firmness of the door falls away from under his touch. It’s another dream.

As his eyes slide open he witnesses the desolate beauty before him: a cold planet, twisted and gnarled, warped beyond what a planet should be. Scattered burgundy rock trail away from the gravity of the mass, levitating in space and highlighting collisions of a past life. Where was this? What had _caused_ this? Black ice plates the ground beneath him and as he turns his head to witness further the carnage, he jumps.

Beside Keith, the silent young form of Lotor stands looking out at the barren world and piles of rubble, something taciturn souring his expression. He glances behind them and finds the matter that was once the room he awoke in disintegrating into dust, the clouds refracting light from a dying sun. When he turns back around, Lotor is standing in front of him. Keith starts at the silent shifting and stares into blue eyes, glazed over by a past misery. And then, young Lotor turns and walks down the hill they stand on.

When Keith does not follow, the young spectral prince turns and looks at him, waiting. It puts Keith off, the eeriness of it all, makes him want to slap himself awake or run and hide. But instead of fleeing he finds himself turning, running headlong into destiny. He quickly catches up with the prince who says nothing in return, only marches forward to a destination unbeknownst to Keith. It seems these dreams are only going to keep coming, so embracing them is the only course of action. Perhaps he’ll learn something of value here.

Rubble makes way for dead tree roots emerging from within the dirt, to the last smooth marbles of a castle visible to the eye. They stop at a monument, half caved over, Daizek inscriptions scrolling along the bottom length. Above, murals of a robed Galra surrounded by golden beams. Keith’s eyes follow along the lines of gold, and there at the end of the last fully intact ray: a Galra heart. He glances over at young Lotor who’s fingers splay over the imagery toward the end. And in front of Keith, the robed Galra, arms extended as if asking for an embrace. He turns his head to the side, inspecting the decaying past in this dream reality.

He finds himself creeping closer and his numb fingers rest against the gold inscription. An ancient power thrums beneath them and the adjacent beams glimmer as if made of gold wire. “What does this mean?” he asks, and his voice echoes in the emptiness. Puffs of white heat seep from his mouth at the words, the sensation odd against his face. When he turns, Lotor is no longer there. He whips around, eyes searching the ruins, and they spot him farther away, even younger now, curled up and crying. 

Large plumes of dust billow up from lack of gravity  with each step he takes closer. Keith gently stalks up to the tiny figure, broken sobs penetrating the void. “Lotor?” he asks quietly and bends down to rest a tentative hand on the tiny Galra’s back.

But his fingers go through the phantom form. And then Keith hears the small, broken voice whimper out the word _mother_ , and his chest aches immensely at how weak and shattered it sounds. And suddenly the tattered world disperses into the abyss of space, and he’s flung back into consciousness.

Keith jumps when he returns from the dream, and his eyes open to an unfamiliar room, an unfamiliar bed, and a blanket delicately resting atop him. The previous night resurfaces in his mind and his cheeks quickly grow hot. He fell asleep in the center chamber of Lotor’s quarters. This must be the bedroom. Lotor had carried him in and covered him, had cared for him. He slowly slides out from the blanket and looks for the prince, shaking off the last fragments of his dream and shoving down the rising embarrassment.

The room is hardly used, and very little indicated that Lotor had slept here at all. Keith frowns at the thought. Was the prince sleeping? That would explain why he seemed exhausted so often. He briefly wonders if the prince has similar struggles to Shiro when it comes to dreaming and the thought tugs at his heart. Surprising no one, the prince has kept his issues to himself, repressed them. Keith’s fingers brush along the cuirass of armor resting on the chest by the end of the bed, tracing the line of deep blue. Sighing, he curls his fingers to his palm and cradles his hand delicately. How long has the prince felt alone?

Shaking his head from his thoughts, he walks down the hall, glancing into the empty study. Not long after and Keith quickly begins to realize that Lotor is nowhere to be found. Not in his chambers, anyway. He huffs and makes his exit, stomping through the hall and out the main entrance. The two guards by the door startle as Keith emerges, one blinking rapidly and then blatantly _staring_ as if in shock of something _._

Keith frowns, “do either of you know where Lotor went?” he asks.

The other guard looks offput, “he hasn’t left the guest wing.”

Right, these were coalition soldiers, not Blades. Let alone with barely if any military training. One would assume watching over a charge would be easy, but that would be false in this case, what with two inexperienced ‘soldiers’ sent to do the work. Keith doesn’t really know what he expected. He sighs, “he gave you the slip.” And he shoulders past the one guard openly gawking at him.

He frowns, taking in the shock on the other’s face one last time before exiting the wing completely.  He didn’t think emerging from the prince’s quarters would warrant such consternation, but then again, many of their own number are still prejudice against the Galra. Leaving the bedroom of their long time enemy-turned-ally so early must seem conspicuous if not scandalous. It must be that. He’s frightened to think it could be anything else.

Clearly he isn’t going to find the prince anytime soon, so his feet march him toward the medbay, toward Medhi. She had wanted to talk, so now was as good a time as any with nothing but painstakingly long rest on his schedule. The metal doors slide open with a swish and the doctor looks up from the contraption she’s fiddling with on her desk, some sort of microscope, and double takes. 

“Kit!” she gasps.

Keith frowns, and stops at the end of her desk. “What?” he tenses.

Medhi’s expression is one of awe and dread slowly curls in Keith’s stomach as he realizes what she’s looking at. Her eyes follow the same curve of the marks on his face, the ones he’d been glaring at wishing to be rid of them just the day prior. He slaps a hand a little too hard on one side of his face in a poor attempt to cover it. They must’ve darkened considerably overnight. _Great._

“Your lineage,” Medhi starts, “I haven’t seen it amongst the Blade, but, Kolivan will know.” She fiddles with her desk drawer before pulling out a small mirror and handing it to him. 

Hesitantly, Keith takes the small mirror and inspects the damage. The sharp curves sit on his skin in a medium, cool violet hue and visible to anyone in a distance close enough to see his face in any way. Going unnoticed as Galra is completely out of the question now. But more importantly, his mind clearing runs through Medhi’s words once more.

Keith squints at the statement. Kolivan will know what?

A beat of silent confusion. 

 _Oh._ His mother.

Kolivan will know who his mother was. He’s not sure if he’s ready to know.  “Uhh, yeah, that’s great,” he tries to muster but it’s not very convincing, so he presses on to change the subject as he sets the small mirror atop the desk. “I came here so we could talk about, er,” he shifts uncomfortably and adds weakly, “heat.”

The medic seems to catch onto his discomfort and, pitying the young Blade, changes the course of the conversation to doctor and patient. “Right, I wanted to talk to you about what to expect,” she smiles, “and also, we should start mood monitoring now that we know you’re an Omega.”

Keith moves to flop down on the couch across from her work space, “mood monitoring…,” he echoes.

Medhi hums, “each presentation has different levels of hormones and needs different things. Omega have naturally low oxytocin, so they need to monitor their moods.” 

Keith frowns at the medical terminology, “could you maybe say that again in a way that I can understand?”

He hears a soft chuckle before the other continues, reiterating this time. “Right, uh, oxytocin is responsible for a lot of things, especially social interaction in our culture. On a chemical level, having less means you might struggle with depressive feelings or anxiety, especially about trusting others, which can turn into aggression when you’re in heat.”

She spins her chair around toward Keith, one leg crossed over the other as she grabs her tablet from the corner of the desk. “So, having low levels of oxytocin, Omega need a lot of touch interaction…which you don’t really have. Especially with Antok gone.”

Keith scrunches his nose up in thought and he hugs the pillow from the couch. “Is that the only way to get it?” he mumbles. He thinks back to Antok scratching the nape of his neck soothingly, how comforting it was, like his anxieties were temporarily thrown out into the deep abyss of the cosmos, nowhere to be found.

Medhi bobs her foot a little. “Well, no, but it’s the most applicable way in your case. I doubt you’ll want to have sex just yet.” Keith blanches at the word _sex_ so blatantly thrown about. “But I’ll warn you that once you do, your libido will kick in, and I don’t think you’re ready for that.” She chuckles darkly at the equally embarrassed and confused expression Keith gives her. “Omega are the most sexually active presentation. Since they have low oxytocin, sex is a regular activity for them, and the endorphins released are twice as strong. But you should really have a mate to torment before you worry about that.”

Keith’s cheeks are hot, but he’s known for a long while that Medhi is used to bashful patients, and that comforts him some. At least he won’t have to be mortified about panicking like a coward. “What about Alpha?” he asks, thoughts meandering to what Antok had said. _Alpha are not overly phased by the scent of heat, only heat from someone who desires them._  

“Oh,” she blinks, “well, they can be attracted to others, but uh, nothing really _works_ until their partner is aroused. Doesn’t matter the species.” She says, but then adds, “unless they’re in a rut, which is exceedingly rare. Then it’s like they can’t turn it off and they’re just aggressive to everyone unless properly sated or calmed by someone they trust. Adult Alpha are not really a threat though, but if instigated enough they can be.”

Keith hums. “Humans aren’t like that at all,” he says quietly.

She huffs, “I know, it’s why you’re here now: so you can learn.” Her fingers tap against the tablet as she brings a file up before continuing. “Alright, for an indeterminate time period you’ll be proestrus,” Keith sits up straighter at the word, the word Lotor had used too, “so you might have dizzy spells and heightened anxiety if you feel trapped.”

He nods, “already been there,” he says sheepishly.

Medhi regards him a moment, brows furrowed in concern, and then types something. “When you have your heat, you’ll need bed rest. The more heats you go through, the easier it’ll be to handle them and you can cut bedrest time down to a day or two and then continue your daily routines for the remainder of it. But this is your first, so it’ll be a learning curve for both you and your body. You’ll feel feverish, frail, and since you have no physical interaction: you’ll be emotional.” 

Keith frowns, “emotional?” He already gets in trouble for beings _too_ _emotional_ as is _,_ how much worse could it get?

The doctor glances up from her notes, “weepy; ordinary minor inconveniences might make you cry, and especially if others are rude to you.”

He flops down onto his side, still hugging the pillow. “So I’m going to be a big baby,” he grumbles.

He hears Medhi snicker, “well, maybe. I was going to ask your thoughts on something,” Keith perks up a little and she continues, “would you be open to Lotor helping you? I could ask him. Even sitting in the same room will make you feel less distressed, and you really shouldn’t be alone for the first few heats. You’re going to need someone to help take care of you until you can learn how to cope.” 

Keith tenses, eyes narrowing at the possible insinuation, “what do you mean _take care of me?”_

She sighs, “relax. I mean as a caregiver. Make sure you fall asleep, get enough food and water, help you to the bathroom if you need.”

He hides his face in the pillow before speaking again, slightly muffled, “doesn’t sound like something a prince would do.” 

“Kit,” the medic states sternly, “heats are normal, they’re not viewed as lesser, and its honorable to help someone going through one. There’s really no reason for him to say no. We’re a social race, and in healthier circumstances there’s a lot of doting.” 

Keith just groans into the pillow. He’s moved far beyond fear and into tired acceptance as of late and every day something becomes begrudgingly less mortifying to him. He sits up again and sets the pillow down, jumps a little as Medhi hands him a smaller, extra tablet from her top drawer. 

“I downloaded some more files on the specifics of bodily functions which I’m sure you’d rather read yourself than have me tell you. It’s not too in depth, just a rundown, but it’ll get you out of the dark at least. Read it on your own time,” she commands as his hands take the small tablet from her.

“Right, uh,” Keith mumbles, looking down at the tech, “thanks again.”

As his eyes move back up to meet hers, she smiles. “I’ll see if I can talk to the prince,” she says warmly, “now shoo, I’m studying some blood samples in urgent need of my attention.”

Keith rolls his eyes as he rises from the couch. Walking toward the exit he mutters under his breath in accusation, “yeah, _my_ blood samples.” Before the doors close behind him, the sound of Medhi laughing chases after him until it’s cut off by the aloy wall as the door slides shut.

He should probably go somewhere quiet to read these. His room is ideal for comfort but he fears anyone walking in and interrupting him from the unknown territory he’s about to explore. He brings the tablet up in his hand and selects a random file, eyes skimming across the digital matrix as his feet carry him in a different direction than his room.

Keith grimaces as he absorbs the passage. _Slick is the natural lubricant created during arousal in Galra able to produce offspring. It is most prominent for Omega and the volume increases during heats to allow easier penetration._ He quickly scrolls down to another passage hoping for something less disgusting than the word ‘penetration’.

_During their first heats, the hips of an Omega may widen slightly for the second entrance to dilate. Depending on species, permanent changes may occur after development is done or after childbearing._

Nope. That’s _definitely_ worse.

There’s a quick note added below this passage from Medhi for him that reads: _Kit, don’t freak out about the prior passage. Galra are a long lived species, so virility is frighteningly low and in your case even if you have the proper organs you won’t be able to conceive. We can look into it later if you’re still worried._

Keith’s brow twitches, the words burning into his mind, and quickly shuts it off as he hears someone call his name. Turning, he finds Shiro jogging up to him, expression warm. “Hey,” the taller man says a little too winded, stopping only a foot away. It’s the same way he speaks when he’s surprised, just like he’s always done. It’s warranted; who _wouldn’t_ be surprised by the sudden appearance of biological tattoos on their charge’s face? But Shiro has always been able to discern when he’s feeling skittish or assertive, so the older man refrains from saying anything about them. 

“Hey,” Keith replies, smile forming. 

“Walk with me?” Shiro asks and Keith nods, falling into step as the other continues. “We haven’t spoken about personal stuff in awhile, I just wanted to catch up, see how you were doing,” he states.

Keith’s heart melts a little at the attention and he can’t keep the smile off his face. “That sounds nice actually,” he gazes up at Shiro, “I, uh, haven’t been able to vent about Galra stuff since Antok left.” 

Shiro nods slowly, and Keith can feel the other’s gaze hovering over the marks on his face, a tenseness in the way he holds himself. Keith is grateful for the hesitation to openly acknowledge them. Their pace is leisurely, and the presence is comforting...talking about it would just ruin the moment. Shiro clears his throat awkwardly, “I’m going to be honest with you: Kolivan just said you were dealing with _entering Galra adulthood,_ so I have no idea what’s been happening.”

Keith snorts, “jeez, Kolivan is relieved of parenting duty from now on.”

The other hums, “that’s probably for the best. He tends to throw you headlong into danger.”

From the outside, he knows this is what it seems like. In reality, Kolivan gives him the less dangerous missions and attempts to steer him from emotional and reckless decisions so that he may live through it. Kolivan respects him. Respects him enough to not baby him, at least, but always makes sure he returns. It’s the reason he was suspended from mission activity after his dance with suicide during the Naxzela debacle. But Shiro could never know about that; he doesn’t know what he’d do if he found out.

Keith sighs, “I mean, he was telling the truth. I’ve just been going through some changes lately. It’s like my Galra half is catching up with me…trying to make up for lost time or something.”

Shiro seems taken aback. “Oh,” there’s a pause as he collects his thoughts, “so you weren’t really joking when you said it was puberty?”

Keith shakes his head, “I wish I was.” Shiro shoots him a sympathetic look that quickly turns dark as he continues, “er, Lotor has been really helpful with it actually.”

“You shouldn’t get so close to him,” Shiro says gruffly, as if triggered by a reminder of some monumental horror he’s suffered.

Keith blinks, brows furrowing. They’ve been over this before. “He’s our _ally._ And I think he’s proven himself trustworthy enough by now. All the information he’s given has been good.” 

The taller man sighs, “I know he must have some sort of ulterior motive, or some plans to double cross us eventually. I just don’t want you to get hurt when he does.”

Keith stops walking abruptly, inspecting Shiro. “Are you having nightmares again?”

Shiro halts at the question and turns to meet his expression, “no, why wou—…”

 Keith cuts him off quickly as irritation starts simmering beneath his skin, “because you’re acting kinda paranoid, and it’s unfair to Lotor for you to keep treating him like an enemy just because of some racial differences.”

Shiro is frowning now, absorbing his words, “Keith, that’s not…,” he sighs, “let’s not talk about this right now.” 

“Yeah?” Keith barks a little hysterically, “then stop projecting your fears onto an entire race, one that I’m now a part of,” he shakes his head and can’t seem to bite back the rest of his words before they tumble out, “did you forget that or are you _trying_ to forget? You’re better than this, Shiro.” He turns to leave but looks over his shoulder briefly with a glare, and can’t keep the hurt from his voice, “you don’t have to trust him. I just wish you’d trust _me._ ”

“Keith!” Shiro calls after him, but he storms forward, white-knuckled grip on the small tablet in his hand.

 

The hair on the back of Lotor’s neck raises the exact moment his sensitive ears pick up on the scraping open of the old Altean door. This room seems to have taken abuse over the long decaphoeb of it’s disuse. Eyes snapping to the person who entered, the scent of irritation hits him like a brick. He finds before him the littlest Blade, cheeks warm from anger, eyes glassy and dull, a look pulled together by corrugated brow. On each side of his pale skin, the signature of a long forgotten strain of ancestry. He’s _beautiful,_ and the realization jabs Lotor in the heart before he can repress the feeling. 

Keith looks up, hugging the small tablet like a lifeline and startles when he finds none other than the prince himself. “Sleep well?” Lotor calls, hair partially falling over his face on one side from the long thoughtful silence, staring at the floor previously.

When the smaller man registers him fully, waking from his daze, Lotor watches with perfect clarity in the small room as Keith’s pupils dilate, taking him in. The little Blade quickly tucks some hair behind his ear, a tic that Lotor has picked up on. He does it sometimes, but only in his presence, or in the presence of the Black Paladin. It’s done with little if any purpose, save for comfort when he’s anxious about something. The scent of anger slowly dissipates, giving way to something more, but of what he can’t discern yet.

Keith gives a shy nod, glancing back up again. “Thanks. You could have woke me up, though, if it was annoying,” he murmurs back. 

Lotor’s gaze bears into Keith’s, refusing to move. But there is no threat of a standoff, merely his undying attention. “I have not slept soundly since I’ve been here. The bed was obsolete until you came along,” he jokes, though he _has_ lacked sufficient rest for some time.

This seems to be the wrong thing to say as he’s met with a slight frown and a worried look from the other. “It’s alright,” Lotor assures him, “the internal clocks of Galra and Alteans do not sync up as well as I’d thought...the quintent cycle runs shorter here.”

To his luck, Keith tilts his head in curiosity, surveying the room and his person. “I’d tell you to get some rest but you won’t listen to me, so…,” his eyes glance as the planet matrix in front of Lotor, “instead, would you mind telling me what that is?”

The prince turns his gaze back to it, a light returning to his eyes. “It’s an old matrix of Daibazaal, the Galra homeworld from before my father,” he hums nonchalantly, but his face betrays his delight. “Not in all my years have I found one so intact as this,” he pauses, and then the rest of his thoughts slip from his mouth breathlessly, “this could help fix everything.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that part aloud, and he sobers quickly to the gravity of what he’s laid out as Keith’s voice rips him away from his dreaming, “fix what? The Empire?” 

“Stars,” he huffs under his breath. Of all the burying he’s done of feelings and plans away from both his father’s tyrannical regime and this ragtag team rallied under the banner of Voltron...it is around this small half Galra that he can no longer repress. So he forces it deeper within himself, as to not concern the pure light before him, too bright for him to possess. “I’ve made mistakes in the past, is all…,” it wasn’t _technically_ a lie, “there’s no need to concern yourself. It won’t affect the coalition.”

Keith makes his way closer as he listens, sets the small tablet on the table to the side. He only stops when he’s within arms length of Lotor and the matrix. Inquisitive eyes scan it over as the hologram of a planet long passed rotates slowly, the warm purple and white light reflecting off onyx hair in the dark room. Perfect eyes turn to meet him in the moment of silence before, playfully, “how do they let you go to places like this? ‘ _S_ _kulking around the castle’_ is what Pidge says.” 

Ah, Pidge: all too brilliant for his comfort, and with a fierce protective instinct for the little Blade to boot. Finding his voice is difficult, and it comes out lowly, “they don’t.”

Keith scrunches his nose up in confusion and Lotor finds that against his will he adores it. He adores the inquisitive nature, the truth in everything the little Blade does, how he can’t hide it. He finds his voice fully again, “the security here is laughable, and it has been since the Blade of Marmora left. I doubt many of these coalition _soldiers_ have seen a wink of formal military training in their lives and it’s frightfully obvious.”

Keith is quiet, too quiet, and keeps a contemplative look about him. Lotor begins to fear he’s overstepped, insulted him in some way. But then, “why do you say the whole name?”

The prince blinks. “Wait a tick,” he finds himself smirking, “I insult the guard rotations here and you disregard it to ask me why I say _The Blade of Marmora?”_

Keith blushes, turning his gaze quickly to a view of Daibazaal in favor of meeting the prince’s eyes. “Well, I agree about the guards…,” he mumbles and Lotor can feel the tenseness of his shoulders relax around the Omega.

“We’re not exactly friends,” he begins, and Keith looks hurt. “The Blade of Marmora and I,” he amends.

The small Galra bites his lip in contemplation, before he regards Lotor eye to eye again. “Would you like to be?”

Lotor is confused, to say the least, and raises an incredulous brow,  “I was under the impression we are already allies.”

Bewilderment strikes Keith in the form of blinking furiously, clearly flustered. But the prince allows him the time he needs to find the words. “No, I mean,” his eyes flick to every part of the room _but_ Lotor, “ _my_ friend. Would you—if you want to be, that is.”

The _prince_ sees a flustered young man offering peace. The _Alpha_ sees a kind hearted Omega attempting to soothe his pains. _Lotor_ sees a little Blade, Keith, offering companionship to a man everyone would rather have dead. It melts the icy walls he’s built around his heart. It’s him this time, that’s the one with heat seeping through the skin of his cheeks, ears becoming hot.

He can no longer keep the sharp, jagged force of distancing himself up. Instead, finds himself smiling, leaning ever so closer to Keith, “I’d like that, if you’ll have me.”

The little Blade beams at him, glowing like starlight at his darkness, and he finds that he can no longer hide from it. And he finds that he no longer wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotor is f u c k e d  
> hmu on my talk/vld twitter if you want @marmorhys


End file.
